“In the ardor of pursuit men soon forget the goal from which they start.”

The future comes slowly, the present flies and the past stands still forever.

What reason, like the careful ant, draws laboriously together, the wind of accident sometimes collects in a moment.

What the inner voice says will not disappoint the hoping soul.

Even the weak become strong when they are united.

Toil of science swells the wealth of art.

Soon is the struggle past, and to the earth, To the eternal sun, I render back These atoms, joined in me for pain and pleasure.

Power is the most persuasive rhetoric.

The storm is master. Man, as a ball, is tossed twixt winds and billows.

Arrow-swift the present sweepeth, and motionless forever stands the past.

Worthless is the nation that does not gladly stake it’s all on its honor.

Our safety is not in blindness, but in facing our dangers.

Man, living, feeling man, is the easy sport of the over-mastering present.

Nothing, it is true, is more common than for both Science and Art to pay homage to the spirit of the age, and for creative taste to accept the law of critical taste.

Only the soldier is a free man, because he can look death in the face.

Truth is more than a dream and a song.

Eternity gives nothing back of what one leaves out of the minutes.