The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

Every Man's Road In Life Is Marked By The Grave Of His Personal Likings.

I Have Learned To Prize The Quiet, Lightning Deed, Not The Applauding Thunder At Its Heels That Men Call Fame.

If The Egotist Is Weak, His Egotism Is Worthless. If The Egotist Is Strong, Acute, Full Of Distinctive Character, His Egotism Is Precious, And Remains A Possession Of The Race.

A Man's Real Possession Is His Memory. In Nothing Else Is He Rich, In Nothing Else Is He Poor.

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.