A Weed Is A Plant Whose Virtue

Our Moods Do Not Believe In Each Other.

The Clergyman Who Lives In The City May Have Piety, But He Must Have Taste.

Goodness That Preaches Undoes Itself.

If I Have Renounced The Search Of Truth, If I Have Come Into The Port Of Some Pretending Dogmatism, Some New Church, Some Schelling Or Cousin, I Have Died To All Use Of These New Events That Are Born Out Of Prolific Time Into Multitude Of Life Every Hour. I Am As Bankrupt To Whom Brilliant Opportunities Offer In Vain. He Has Just Foreclosed His Freedom, Tied His Hands, Locked Himself Up And Given The Key To Another To Keep.

Every Reform Was Once A Private Opinion.