The Idealist Is Incorrigible: If He Is

Out Of Damp And Gloomy Days, Out Of Solitude, Out Of Loveless Words Directed At Us, Conclusions Grow Up In Us Like Fungus: One Morning They Are There, We Know Not How, And They Gaze Upon Us, Morose And Gray. Woe To The Thinker Who Is Not The Gardener But Only The Soil Of The Plants That Grow In Him.

Against Boredom The Gods Themselves Fight In Vain.

Man And Man's Earth Are Unexhausted And Undiscovered. Wake And Listen! Verily, The Earth Shall Yet Be A Source Of Recovery. Remain Faithful To The Earth, With The Power Of Your Virtue. Let Your Gift-giving Love And Your Knowledge Serve The Meaning Of The Earth.

Supposing Truth Is A Woman -- What Then?

The Believer In Magic And Miracles Reflects On How To Impose A Law On Nature--: And, In Brief, The Religious Cult Is The Outcome Of This Reflection.