God Enters By A Private Door Into

I--this Thought Which Is Called I--is The Mould Into Which The World Is Poured Like Melted Wax.

Neither You Nor The World Knows What You Can Do Until You Have Tried.

The Stars Awaken A Certain Reverence, Because Though Always Present, They Are Inaccessible.

Wait, And Thy Soul Shall Speak.

To Clothe The Fiery Thought In Simple Words Succeeds, For Still The Craft Of Genius Is To Mask A King In Weeds.