Old Age Is Like An Opium Dream.

There Is Something Frightful In The Way In Which Not Only Characteristic Qualities, But Particular Manifestations Of Them, Are Repeated From Generation To Generation.

We Must Think Things Not Words, Or At Least We Must Constantly Translate Our Words Into The Facts For Which They Stand, If We Are To Keep To The Real And The True.

Our Dead Brothers And Sisters Still Live For Us And Bid Us Think Of Life, Not Death-of Life To Which In Their Youth They Lent The Passion And Glory Of Spring. As I Listen, The Great Chorus Of Life And Joy Begins Again, And Amid The Awful Orchestra Of Seen And Unseen Powers And Destinies Of Good And Evil, Our Trumpets Sound Once More A Note Of Daring, Hope, And Will.

Eloquence May Set Fire To Reason.

Certitude Is Not The Test Of Certainty.