Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.
God will pardon me. It is His trade.
Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.
Every age thinks its battle the most important of all.
Christ rode on an ass, but now asses ride on Christ.