Forty Is The Old Age Of Youth;

He Had Slipped, Climbed, Rolled, Searched, Walked, Persevered, That Is All. Such Is The Secret Of All Triumphs.

In Joined Hands There Is Still Some Token Of Hope, In The Clenched Fist None.

These Are Dark Radiances. They Have No Suspicion That They Are To Be Pitied. Certainly They Are So. He Who Does Not Weep Does Not See. They Are To Be Admired And Pitied, As One Would Both Pity And Admire A Being At Once Night And Day, Without Eyes Beneath His Lashes But With A Star On His Brow.

The Soul Does Not Give Itself Up To Despair Until It Has Exhausted All Illusions.

The Flesh Is The Upper Surface Of The Unknown.