Civilization Is A Transient Sickness.

I've Changed My Ways A Little, I Cannot Now Run With You In The Evenings Along The Shore, Except In A Kind Of Dream, And You, If You Dream A Moment, You See Me There.

Death's A Fierce Meadowlark: But To Die Having Made / Something More Equal To The Centuries / Than Muscle And Bone, Is Mostly To Shed Weakness.

Truly Men Hate The Truth; They'd Liefer Meet A Tiger On The Road.

The Cold Passion For Truth Hunts In No Pack.

The World's In A Bad Way, My Man, And Bound To Be Worse Before It Mends; Better Lie Up In The Mountain Here Four Or Five Centuries, While The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean.