An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

The falcon cannot hear the falconer

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.