No Mud Can Soil Us But The

The Purely Great Whose Soul No Siren Passion Could Unsphere, Thou Nameless, Now A Power And Mixed With Fate.

A Sneer Is The Weapon Of The Weak.

What Men Prize Most Is A Privilege, Even If It Be That Of Chief Mourner At A Funeral.

I Willingly Confess To So Great A Partiality For Trees As Tempts Me To Respect A Man In Exact Proportion To His Respect For Them.

It Is Right Precious To Behold The First Long Surf Of Climbing Light Flood All The Thirsty East With Gold.