Nature, After All, Is Still

The Glory Of A Workman, Still More Of A Master Workman, That He Does His Work Well, Ought To Be His Most Precious Possession; Like The Honor Of A Soldier, Dearer To Him Than Life.

There Is But One Temple In This Universe: The Body. We Speak To God Whenever We Lay Our Hands Upon It.

Poetry Is The Attempt Which Man Makes To Render His Existence Harmonious.

History: A Distillation Of Rumor.

The True Past Departs Not, No Truth Or Goodness Realized By Man Ever Dies, Or Can Die; But All Is Still Here, And, Recognized Or Not, Lives And Works Through Endless Change.