Common Sense In An Uncommon Degree Is

Death But Supplies The Oil For The Inextinguishable Lamp Of Life.

During The Act Of Knowledge Itself, The Objective And Subjective Are So Instantly United, That We Cannot Determine To Which Of The Two The Priority Belongs.

And To Be Wroth With One We Love…doth Work Like Madness In The Brain.

Perhaps 'tis Pretty To Force Together Thoughts So All Unlike Each Other; To Mutter And Mock A Broken Charm, To Dally With Wrong That Does No Harm.

Work Without Hope Draws Nectar In A Sieve, And Hope Without An Object Cannot Live.