How Many Minds--almost All The Great Ones--were

Most Men In A Brazen Prison Live, Where, In The Sun's Hot Eye, With Heads Bent O'er Their Toil, They Languidly Their Lives To Some Unmeaning Taskwork Give, Dreaming Of Nought Beyond Their Prison-wall.

If An Historian Be An Unbeliever In All Heroism, If He Be A Man Who Brings Every Thing Down To The Level Of A Common Mediocrity, Depend Upon It, The Truth Is Not Found In Such A Writer.

Nature, With Equal Mind, Sees All Her Sons At Play, Sees Man Control The Wind, The Wind Sweep Man Away.

If Paris That Brief Flight Allow, My Humble Tomb Explore! It Bears: Eternity, Be Thou My Refuge! And No More.

Unquiet Souls. In The Dark Fermentation Of Earth, In The Never Idle Workshop Of Nature, In The Eternal Movement, Yea Shall Find Yourselves Again.