Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, the emptiness of ages in his face, and on his back the burden of the world.

In vain we build the city if we do not first build the man.

Fight ever on: this earthly stuff If used God’s way will be enough. Face to the firing line o friend Fight out life’s battle to the end. One soldier, when the fight was red, Threw down his broken sword and fled. Another snatched it, won the day, With what his comrade flung away.

Choices are the hinges of destiny.

At the heart of the cyclone tearing the sky is a place of central calm.

I fear the vermin that shall undermineSenate and citadel and school and shrine.

That in the human plan nothing is worth the making if it does not make the man.