Drive Your Cart And Plow Over The

The Human Mind Cannot Go Beyond The Gift Of God, The Holy Ghost. To Suppose That Art Can Go Beyond The Finest Specimens Of Art That Are Now In The World Is Not Knowing What Art Is; It Is Being Blind To The Gifts Of The Spirit.

Ah, Sunflower, Weary Of Time, Who Countest The Steps Of The Sun, Seeking After That Sweet Golden Clime Where The Traveller's Journey Is Done; Where The Youth Pined Away With Desire And The Pale Virgin Shrouded In Snow Arise From Their Graves, And Aspire Where My Sunflower Wishes To Go.

Every Harlot Was A Virgin Once.

Prisons Are Built With Stones Of Law. Brothels With The Bricks Of Religion.

Come O'er The Eastern Hills, And Let Our Winds Kiss Thy Perfumed Garments; Let Us Taste Thy Morn And Evening Breath; Scatter Thy Pearls Upon Our Love-sick Land That Mourns For Thee.