The Fly That Prefers Sweetness

If All Art Aspires To The Condition Of Music, All The Sciences Aspire To The Condition Of Mathematics.

Bid, Then, The Tender Light Of Faith To Shine By Which Alone The Mortal Heart Is Led Unto The Thinking Of The Thought Divine.

Nothing Can So Pierce The Soul As The Uttermost Sigh Of The Body.

A Friend's Only Gift Is Himself.

What Better Comfort Have We, Or What Other Profit In Living Than To Feed, Sobered By The Truth Of Nature, Awhile Upon Her Beauty, And Hand Her Torch Of Gladness To The Ages Following After?