Knowledge Is The Knowing That We Cannot

What Is There Of The Divine In A Load Of Brick? What ... In A Barber Shop? ... Much. All.

I Feel The Same Truth How Often In My Trivial Conversation With My Neighbours, That Somewhat Higher In Each Of Us Overlooks This By-play, And Jove Nods To Jove From Behind Each Of Us.

The Secret Of Poetry Is Never Explained,— Is Always New. We Have Not Got Farther Than Mere Wonder At The Delicacy Of The Touch, And The Eternity It Inherits. In Every House A Child That In Mere Play Utters Oracles, And Knows Not That They Are Such. 't Is As Easy As Breath. 't Is Like This Gravity, Which Holds The Universe Together, And None Knows What It Is.

Life Is Not Measured By Its Length, But By Its Depth.

Our Opinions Of The World, Are Confessions Of Character.