The Archenemy Is The Arch Stupid!

Imperfection Clings To A Person, And If They Wait Till They Are Brushed Off Entirely, They Would Spin For Ever On Their Axis, Advancing Nowhere.

A Man--be The Heavens Ever Praised!--is Sufficient For Himself.

The Stifled Hum Of Midnight, When Traffic Has Lain Down To Rest, And The Chariot Wheels Of Vanity, Still Rolling Here And There Through Distant Streets, Are Bearing Her To Halls Roofed In And Lighted To The Due Pitch For Her; And Only Vice And Misery, To Prowl Or To Moan Like Night Birds, Are Abroad.

Heroes, It Would Seem, Exist Always And A Certain Worship Of Them.

The Soul Gives Unity To What It Looks At With Love.