William WinterThinkers

The City , unlike human creatures, may grow to be so old that at last it will become new.

Manners is the final and perfect flower of noble character.

Passion is not a wisp-light ; it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the human heart to dust and ashes.

Poetry is the language of feeling.

Silence is the consummate eloquence of sorrow.