He Who Suffers, Remembers.

Death Darkens His Eyes, And Unplumes His Wings, Yet The Sweetest Song Is The Last He Sings: Live So, My Love, That When Death Shall Come, Swan-like And Sweet It May Waft Thee Home.

This Seems To Be Advanced As The Surest Basis For Our Belief In The Existence Of Gods, That There Is No Race So Uncivilized, No One In The World So Barbarous That His Mind Has No Inkling Of A Belief In Gods.

There Were Poets Before Homer.

If We Are Not Ashamed To Think It, We Should Not Be Ashamed To Say It.

Nothing Troubles You For Which You Do Not Yearn.