The Greatest Gift Is A Portion Of

Friendship, Like The Immortality Of The Soul, Is Too Good To Be Believed.

A Man Becomes What He Thinks About Most Of The Time

Very Few Of Our Race Can Be Said To Be Yet Finished Men. We Still Carry Sticking To Us Some Remains Of The Preceding Inferior Quadruped Organization. We Call These Millions Men; But They Are Not Yet Men. Half-engaged In The Soil, Pawing To Get Free, Man Needs All The Music That Can Be Brought To Disengage Him.

A Believer, A Mind Whose Faith Is Consciousness, Is Never Disturbed Because Other Persons Do Not Yet See The Fact Which He Sees.

A Ruddy Drop Of Manly Blood The Surging Sea Outweighs; The World Uncertain Comes And Goes, The Lover Rooted Stays.