The Only Condition Of Peace In This

A Good Soldier, Like A Good Horse, Cannot Be Of A Bad Color.

Men Are Idolaters, And Want Something To Look At And Kiss And Hug, Or Throw Themselves Down Before; They Always Did, They Always Will; And If You Don't Make It Of Wood, You Must Make It Of Words.

Between Two Groups Of People Who Want To Make Inconsistent Kinds Of Worlds, I See No Remedy But Force.

Life Is A Fatal Complaint, And An Eminently Contagious One.

These Are The Hands Whose Sturdy Labor Brings The Peasant's Food, The Golden Pomp Of Kings; This Is The Page Whose Letters Shall Be Seen, Changed By The Sun To Words Of Living Green; This Is The Scholar Whose Immortal Penspells The First Lesson Hunger Taught To Men; These Are The Lines That Heaven-commanded Toil Shows On His Deed, - The Charter Of The Soil!