Disappointments Are To The Soul What A

Let Him That Sows The Serpent's Teeth Not Hope To Reap A Joyous Harvest. Every Crime Has, In The Moment Of Its Perpetration, Its Own Avenging Angel,--dark Misgivings At The Inmost Heart.

Death Is A Mighty Mediator. There All The Flames Of Rage Are Extinguished, Hatred Is Appeased, And Angelic Pity, Like A Weeping Sister, Bends With Gentle And Close Embrace Over The Funeral Urn.

Folly, Thou Conquerest, And I Must Yield! Against Stupidity The Very Gods Themselves Contend In Vain. Exalted Reason, Resplendent Daughter Of The Head Divine, Wise Foundress Of The System Of The World, Guide Of The Stars, Who Are Thou Then, If Thou, Bound To The Tail Of Folly's Uncurb'd Steed, Must, Vainly Shrieking, With The Drunken Crowd, Eyes Open, Plunge Down Headlong In The Abyss.

A Sublime Soul Can Rise To All Kinds Of Greatness, But By An Effort; It Can Tear Itself From All Bondage, To All That Limits And Constrains It, But Only By Strength Of Will. Consequently The Sublime Soul Is Only Free By Broken Efforts.

Secrecy Is For The Happy,--misery, Hopeless Misery, Needs No Veil; Under A Thousand Suns It Dares Act Openly.