Every Man Is An Omnibus In Which

Between Two Groups Of People Who Want To Make Inconsistent Kinds Of Worlds, I See No Remedy But Force.

Men Are Idolaters, And Want Something To Look At And Kiss And Hug, Or Throw Themselves Down Before; They Always Did, They Always Will; And If You Don't Make It Of Wood, You Must Make It Of Words.

The Wind Blows Out, The Bubble Dies; The Spring Entomb'd In Autumn Lies; The Dew Dries Up; The Star Is Shot; The Flight Is Past, And Man Forgot.

Even A Dog Distinguishes Between Being Stumbled Over And Being Kicked.

On The Whole, I Am On The Side Of The Unregenerate Who Affirms The Worth Of Life As An End In Itself, As Against The Saints Who Deny It.