The Siren Waits Thee, Singing Song For

Life And Death Appear More Certainly Ours Than Whatsoever Else; And Yet Hardly Can That Be Called Ours, Which Comes Without Our Knowledge, And Goes Without It.

I Strove With None; For None Was Worth My Strife.

Immoderate Power, Like Other Intemperance, Leaves The Progeny Weaker And Weaker, Until Nature As In Compassion Covers It With Her Mantle And It Is Seen No More.

Even The Weakest Disputant Is Made So Conceited By What He Calls Religion, As To Think Himself Wiser Than The Wisest Who Thinks Differently From Him.

What Is Companionship Where Nothing That Improves The Intellect Is Communicated, And Where The Larger Heart Contracts Itself To The Model And Dimension Of The Smaller?