It Is In Self-limitation That A Master

The Thought Of Death Leaves Me In Perfect Peace, For I Have A Firm Conviction That Our Spirit Is A Being Of Indestructible Nature; It Works On From Eternity To Eternity, It Is Like The Sun, Which Though It Seems To Set To Our Mortal Eyes, Does Not Really Set, But Shines On Perpetually.

The Woman-soul Leadeth Us Upward And On!

I Do Not Now Begin, - I Still Adore Her Whom I Early Cherish'd In My Breast; Then Once Again With Prudence Dispossess'd, And To Whose Heart I'm Driven Back Once More. The Love Of Petrarch, That All-glorious Love, Was Unrequited, And, Alas, Full Sad.

Superstition Is The Poetry Of Life. It Is Inherent In Man's Nature; And When We Think It Is Wholly Eradicated, It Takes Refuge In The Strangest Holes And Corners, Whence It Peeps Out All At Once, As Soon As It Can Do It With Safety.

Progress Has Not Followed A Straight Ascending Line, But A Spiral With Rhythms Of Progress And Retrogression, Of Evolution And Dissolution.