Sweet moonlight, shining full and clear, Why do you light my torture here? How often have you seen me toil, Burning last drops of midnight oil. On books and papers as I read, My friend, your mournful light you shed. If only I could flee this den And walk the mountain-tops again, Through moonlit meadows make my way, In mountain caves with spirits play - Released from learning's musty cell, Your healing dew would make me well!

A distracted existence leads us to no goal

He who has a task to perform must know how to take sides, or he is quite unworthy of it.

Democracy does not race, it reaches the finish slowly but surely.

In the colored reflection we have Life.

Let us seek to fathom those things that are fathomable and reserve those things which are unfathomable for reverence in quietude.

A flippant, frivolous man may ridicule others, may controvert them, scorn them; but he who has any respect for himself seems to have renounced the right of thinking meanly of others.