And Chaucer, With His Infantine Familiar Clasp

What We Call Life Is A Condition Of The Soul. And The Soul Must Improve In Happiness And Wisdom, Except By Its Own Fault. These Tears In Our Eyes, These Faintings Of The Flesh, Will Not Hinder Such Improvement.

Much Of The Possibility Of Being Cheerful Comes From The Faculty Of Throwing Oneself Beyond Oneself.

What Frightens Me Is That Men Are Content With What Is Not Life At All.

Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As Cold And Flat As Graveyard Stones.

Unless You Can Feel When The Song Is Done No Other Is Sweet In Its Rhythm; Unless You Can Feel When Left By One That All Men Else Go With Him.