“Fool that I was, upon my eagle’s wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.”

Truth is the object of our understanding, as good is of our will; and the understanding can no more be delighted with a lie than the will can choose an apparent evil.

War seldom enters but where wealth allures.

Desire of greatness is a godlike sin.

He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

Secret guilt is by silence revealed.

Reason is a crutch for age, but youth is strong enough to walk alone.

I’m a little wounded, but I am not slain; I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I’ll rise and fight again.

They that possess the prince possess the laws.

None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey’d to see Another’s faults, and his deformity.

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

Merit challenges envy.

Sculptors are obliged to follow the manners of the painters, and to make many ample folds, which are unsufferable hardness, and more like a rock than a natural garment.

For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she’s at rest, and so am I.

Among our crimes oblivion may be set.

Lately I’ve heard rumors that the eagle may be lame. Just because I’ve been idle, don’t mean that I’m tame.

The caged eagle become a metaphor for all forms of isolation, the ultimate in imprisonment. A zoo is prison.

If you want to fly with the eagles, don’t swim with the ducks!

God is more eager to answer than we are to ask.

Shoot eagles on the Jack Nicklaus course, Porsche with the triple exhaust, Seats soft like a midget’s cough.

“We may talk what we please,” he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, “of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles

September 11, 2001: Citizens of the U.S., besieged by terror’s sting, rose up, weeping glory, as if on eagles’ wings.–from the poem Angel of Remembrance: Candles for September 11, 2001

I was born by God’s dear grace, in an extraordinary place. Where the stars and stripes, and the eagle fly.