Every True Genius Is Bound To Be

Fate Hath No Voice But The Heart's Impulse.

Most Gladly Would I Give The Blood-stained Laurel For The First Violet Which March Brings Us, The Fragrant Pledge Of The New-fledged Year.

Doch Zittre Vor Der Langsamen, Der Stillen Macht Der Zeit. Yet Tremble At The Slow, Silent Power Of Time.

We Are Citizens Of An Age, As Well As Of A State; And If It Is Held To Be Unseemly, Or Even Inadmissible, For A Man To Cut Himself Off From The Customs And Manners Of The Circle In Which He Lives, Why Should It Be Less Of A Duty, In The Choice Of His Activity, To Submit His Decision To The Needs And The Taste Of His Century?

In The Ardor Of Pursuit Men Soon Forget The Goal From Which They Start.