Anger Is A Bow That Will Shoot

Life Is A Plant That Grows Out Of Death.

There Is No Slave Out Of Heaven Like A Loving Woman; And Of All Loving Women, There Is No Such Slave As A Mother.

Genius Is A Steed Too Fiery For The Plow Or The Cart.

A Library Is But The Soul's Burial Ground; It Is The Land Of Shadows. Yet One Is Impressed With The Thought, The Labor, And The Struggle, Represented In This Vast Catacomb Of Books. Who Could Dream, By The Placid Waters That Issue From The Level Mouths Of Brooks Into The Lake, All The Plunges, The Whirls, The Divisions, And Foaming Rushes That Had Brought Them Down To The Tranquil Exit? And Who Can Guess Through What Channels Of Disturbance, And Experiences Of Sorrow, The Heart Passed That Has Emptied Into This Dead Sea Of Books?

If Men Had Wings And Bore Black Feathers, Few Of Them Would Be Clever Enough To Be Crows.