A man is a god in ruins. When men are innocent, life shall be longer, and shall pass into the immortal, as gently as we awake from dreams.

If I cannot brag of knowing something, then I brag of not knowing it; at any rate, brag.

A seashell should be the crest of England, not only because it represents a power built on the waves, but also the hard finish ofthe men. The Englishman is finished like a cowry or a murex.

The leaves are falling, falling as from way off, as though far gardens withered in the skies; they are falling with denying gestures. And in the nights the heavy earth is falling from all the stars down into loneliness. We all are falling. This hand falls. And look at others: it is in them all. And yet there is one who holds this falling endlessly gently in his hands.

Those who cannot tell what they desire or expect, still sigh and struggle with indefinite thoughts and vast wishes.

As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds a disease of the intellect.

Fate, then, is a name for facts not yet passed under the fire of thought; for causes which are unpenetrated.