Most People Would Succeed In Small Things

We Waste Our Best Years In Distilling The Sweetest Flowers Of Life Into Potions Which, After All, Do Not Immortalize, But Only Intoxicate.

Some Critics Are Like Chimney-sweepers; They Put Out The Fire Below, And Frighten The Swallows From Their Nests Above; They Scrape A Long Time In The Chimney, Cover Themselves With Soot, And Bring Nothing Away But A Bag Of Cinders, And Then Sing From The Top Of The House As If They Had Built It.

Man Is Always More Than He Can Know Of Himself; Consequently, His Accomplishments, Time And Again, Will Come As A Surprise To Him.

How Beautiful Is The Rain! After The Dust And The Heat, In The Broad And Fiery Street, In The Narrow Lane, How Beautiful Is The Rain!

I Am Weary Of Your Quarrels, Weary Of Your Wars And Bloodshed, Weary Of Your Prayers For Vengeance, Of Your Wranglings And Dissensions