Infinity Is A Fathomless Gulf, Into Which

Anything That Is Beautiful Is Beautiful Just As It Is. Praise Forms No Part Of Its Beauty, Since Praise Makes Things Neither Better Nor Worse. This Applies Even More To What It Commonly Called Beautiful: Natural Objects, For Example, Or Works Of Art. True Beauty Has No Need Of Anything Beyond Itself.

To Her Who Gives And Takes Back All, To Nature, The Man Who Is Instructed And Modest Says, Give What Thou Wilt; Take Back What Thou Wilt. And He Says This Not Proudly, But Obediently And Well Pleased With Her.

The Man Who Doesn't Know What The Universe Is Doesn't Know Where He Lives.

Because Your Own Strength Is Unequal To The Task, Do Not Assume That It Is Beyond The Powers Of Man; But If Anything Is Within The Powers And Province Of Man, Believe That It Is Within Your Own Compass Also.

The Universal Nature Has No External Space; But The Wondrous Part Of Her Art Is That Though She Has Circumscribed Herself, Everything Which Is Within Her Which Appears To Decay And To Grow Old And To Be Useless She Changes Into Herself, And Again Makes Other New Things From These Very Same, So That She Requires Neither Substance From Without Nor Wants A Place Into Which She May Cast That Which Decays. She Is Content Then With Her Own Space, And Her Own Matter, And Her Own Art.