“These the senses we trust, first, last, and always.”

Nothing can be created out of nothing.

Thus, then, the All that is is limited In no one region of its onward paths, For then ‘tmust have forever its beyond.

One Man’s food is another Man’s Poison

No single thing abides; but all things flow. Fragment to fragment clings – the things thus grow Until we know them and name them. By degrees They melt, and are no more the things we know.

Those vestiges of natures left behind Which reason cannot quite expel from us Are still so slight that naught prevents a man From living a life even worthy of the gods.

Nature repairs one thing from another and allows nothing to be born without the aid of another’s death.

Things stand apart so far and differ, that What’s food for one is poison for another.

How many evils have flowed from religion.

How is it that the sky feeds the stars?

It is great wealth to a soul to live frugally with a contented mind.

How wretched are the minds of men, and how blind their understandings.

True piety lies rather in the power to contemplate the universe with a quiet mind.

The old must always make way for the new, and one thing must be built out of the ruins of another. There is no murky pit of hell awaiting anyone.

The sum total of all sums total is eternal.

Only religion can lead to such evil.

The drops of rain make a hole in the stone not by violence but by oft falling.

Meantime, when once we know from nothing still Nothing can be create, we shall divine More clearly what we seek: those elements From which alone all things created are, And how accomplished by no tool of Gods.

Continual dropping wears away a stone.

Without feathers it isn’t easy to fly: my wings have got no feathers.

If the matter of death is reduced to sleep and rest, what can there be so bitter in it, that any one should pine in eternal grief for the decease of a friend?

Ignorance is stubborn and prejudice is hard.

Ones oldest friend is the best.

He who rushes headlong into love will fare worse than if he had cast himself from a precipice.

On the plains of hesitation lie the blackened bones of countless millions who at the dawn of victory lay down to rest, and in resting died.