Gray Hairs Are Death's Blossoms.

To Save All We Must Risk All.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

The Mind Is The Eyesight Of The Soul.

I Speak With The Eternal Through The Instrument Of Nature, Through The World's History: I Read The Soul Of The Artist In His Apollo.

It Is At The Approach Of Extreme Danger When A Hollow Puppet Can Accomplish Nothing, That Power Falls Into The Mighty Hands Of Nature, Of The Spirit Giant-born, Who Listens Only To Himself, And Knows Nothing Of Compacts.