Our Foibles Are Really What

If I Work Incessantly To The Last, Nature Owes Me Another Form Of Existence When The Present One Collapses.

If A Man Writes A Book, Let Him Set Down Only What He Knows. I Have Guesses Enough Of My Own.

Wherever A Man May Happen To Turn, Whatever A Man May Undertake, He Will Always End Up By Returning To That Path Which Nature Has Marked Out For Him.

If The Whole World I Once Could See On Free Soil Stand, With The People Free Then To The Moment Might I Say, Linger Awhile. . .so Fair Thou Art.

The Soul That Sees Beauty May Sometimes Walk Alone.