What You See, But Can't See Over

A Man's Perfection Is His Work.

Stop A Moment, Cease Your Work, And Look Around You.

The Wise Man Is But A Clever Infant, Spelling Letters From A Hieroglyphical Prophetic Book, The Lexicon Of Which Lies In Eternity.

Thought Is The Parent Of The Deed.

Venerable To Me Is The Hard Hand,--crooked, Coarse,--wherein, Notwithstanding, Lies A Cunning Virtue, Indispensably Royal As Of The Sceptre Of The Planet.