God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps.
Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.
If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.