No Emperor Has The Power

Far Must Thy Researches Go Wouldst Thou Learn The World To Know; Thou Must Tempt The Dark Abyss Wouldst Thou Prove What Being Is; Naught But Firmness Gains The Prize, Naught But Fullness Makes Us Wise, Buried Deep Truth E'er Lies.

Great Souls Endure In Silence.

The Very Plants Turn With A Joyful Transport To The Light.

Everlastingly Chained To A Single Little Fragment Of The Whole, Man Himself Develops Into Nothing But A Fragment; Everlastingly In His Ear The Monotonous Sound Of The Wheel That He Turns, He Never Develops The Harmony Of His Being, And Instead Of Putting The Stamp Of Humanity Upon His Own Nature, He Becomes Nothing More Than The Imprint Of His Occupation Or Of His Specialized Knowledge.

Worthless Is The Nation That Does Not Gladly Stake Its All On Its Honor.