To sin by silence, when they should protest, makes cowards of men.

Distrust that man who tells you to distrust. He takes the measure of his own small soul, and thinks the world no larger.

And let its meaning permeate each day. Whatever comes, This too shall pass away.

How will it be when one of us alone Goes on that strange last journey of the soul? That certain search for an uncertain goal, That voyage on which no comradeship is known?

With care, and skill, and cunning art, She parried Time's malicious dart, And kept the years at bay, Till passion entered in her heart and aged her in a day!

Trust in your own untried capacity.

Unwearied, and with springing steps elate, I had conveyed my wealth along the road. The empty sack proved now a heavier load: I was borne down beneath its worthless weight. I stumbled on, and knocked at Death's dark gate. There was no answer. Stung by sorrow's goad I forced my way into that grim abode, And laughed, and flung Life's empty sack to Fate.