A Man's Felicity Consists Not In The

All Greatness Is Unconscious, Or It Is Little And Naught.

The Scandalous Bronze-lacquer Age Of Hungry Animalisms, Spiritual Impotences, And Mendacities, Will Have To Run Its Course, Till The Pit Follow It.

Let Him Who Would Move And Convince Others, Be First Moved And Convinced Himself.

The Stifled Hum Of Midnight, When Traffic Has Lain Down To Rest, And The Chariot Wheels Of Vanity, Still Rolling Here And There Through Distant Streets, Are Bearing Her To Halls Roofed In And Lighted To The Due Pitch For Her; And Only Vice And Misery, To Prowl Or To Moan Like Night Birds, Are Abroad.

The Tragedy Of Life Is Not So Much What Men Suffer, But Rather What They Miss.