If Paris That Brief Flight Allow, My

All Pains The Immortal Spirit Must Endure, All Weakness That Impairs, All Griefs That Bow, Find Their Sole Voice In That Victorious Brow.

Unquiet Souls. In The Dark Fermentation Of Earth, In The Never Idle Workshop Of Nature, In The Eternal Movement, Yea Shall Find Yourselves Again.

Culture, The Acquainting Ourselves With The Best That Has Been Known And Said In The World, And Thus With The History Of The Human Spirit.

The Brave, Impetuous Heart Yields Everywhere To The Subtle, Contriving Head.

The Sophist Sneers: Fool, Take Thy Pleasure, Right Or Wrong! The Pious Wail: Forsake A World These Sophists Throng! Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.