No work begun shall ever pause for death.

Of power does Man possess no particle: Of knowledge-just so much as show that still It ends in ignorance on every side.

Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed It's petals up.

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

There is an inmost center in us all, where truth abides in fullness;....and, to know, rather consists in opening out a way where the imprisoned splendor may escape, then in effecting entry for a light supposed to be without.

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!