The Truth That Seems Discouraging Does In

No Living Creature, Not Even Man, Has Achieved, In The Centre Of His Sphere, What The Bee Has Achieved In Her Own: And Were Some One From Another World To Descend And Ask Of The Earth The Most Perfect Creation Of The Logic Of Life, We Should Needs Have To Offer The Humble Comb Of Honey.

Every Year, In November, At The Season That Follows The Hour Of The Dead, The Crowning And Majestic Hours Of Autumn, I Go To Visit The Chrysanthemums ... They Are Indeed, The Most Universal, The Most Diverse Of Flowers.

We Can Never Judge A Soul Above The High Water Mark Of Our Own.

It Is Far More Important That One's Life Should Be Perceived Than That It Should Be Transformed; For No Sooner Has It Been Perceived, Than It Transforms Itself Of Its Own Accord.

As Soon As We Put Something Into Words, We Devalue It In A Strange Way. We Think We Have Plunged Into The Depths Of The Abyss, And When We Return To The Surface The Drop Of Water On Our Pale Fingertips No Longer Resembles The Sea From Which It Comes. We Delude Ourselves That We Have Discovered A Wonderful Treasure Trove, And When We Return To The Light Of Day We Find That We Have Brought Back Only False Stones And Shards Of Glass; And Yet The Treasure Goes On Glimmering In The Dark, Unaltered.