For No Man Can Write Anything Who

We Are Made Aware That Magnitude Of Material Things Is Relative, And All Objects Shrink And Expand To Serve The Passion Of The Poet. Thus, In His Sonnets, The Lays Of Birds, The Scents And Dyes Of Flowers, He Finds To Be The Shadow Of His Beloved; Time, Which Keeps Her From Him, Is His Chest; The Suspicion She Has Awakened, Is Her Ornament

Every Man Passes His Life In The Search After Friendship.

Prayer As A Means To Effect A Private End Is Theft And Meanness.

Why Should Not We Have A Poetry And Philosophy Of Insight And Not Of Tradition, And A Religion By Revelation To Us, And Not The History Of Theirs?

Science Always Goes Abreast With The Just Elevation Of The Man, Keeping Step With Religion And Metaphysics; Or, The State Of Science Is An Index Of Our Self-knowledge.