Each Of Us Sees In Others What

Beauty Brings Its Own Fancy Price, For All That A Man Hath Will He Give For His Love.

The Only True Gifts Are A Portion Of Yourself.

But Only That Soul Can Be My Friend Which I Encounter On The Line Of My Own March, That Soul To Which I Do Not Decline, And Which Does Not Decline Me, But, Native Of The Same Celestial Latitude, Repeats In Its Own All My Experience.

All History Is A Record Of The Power Of Minorities, And Of Minorities Of One.

Whenever A Mind Is Simple And Receives An Old Wisdom, Old Things Pass Away,--means, Teachers, Texts, Temples Fall; It Lives Now, And Absorbs Past And Future Into Present Hour. All Things Are Made Sacred By Relation To It,--one As Much As Another.