“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.”

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.

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?

What is food to one man may be fierce poison to others.

Men are eager to tread underfoot what they have once too much feared.

Yet a little while, and (the happy hour) will be over, nor ever more shall we be able to recall it.

For thee the wonder-working earth puts forth sweet flowers.

Violence and injury enclose in their net all that do such things, and generally return upon him who began.

Some species increase, others diminish, and in a short space the generations of living creatures are changed and, like runners, pass on the torch of life.

So it is more useful to watch a man in times of peril, and in adversity to discern what kind of man he is; for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off, reality remains.

It is a pleasure for to sit at ease Upon the land, and safely for to see How other folks are tossed on the seas That with the blustering winds turmoiled be.

It is pleasurable, when winds disturb the waves of a great sea, to gaze out from land upon the great trials of another.

Life is one long struggle in the dark.

The mask is torn off, while the reality remains

Confess then, naught from nothing can become, Since all must have their seeds, wherefrom to grow, Wherefrom to reach the gentle fields of air.

For out of doubt In these affairs ’tis each man’s will itself That gives the start, and hence throughout our limbs Incipient motions are diffused.

I await your sentence with less fear than you pass it. The time will come when all will see what I see.

Responsibility is what awaits outside the Eden of Creativity.

I pray you, magnificent Sir, do not trouble yourself to return to us, but await our coming to you.

We await the successsive births in the soul of the child. We give all possible material, that nothing may lack to the groping soul, and then we watch for the perfect faculty to come, safeguarding the child from interruption so that it may carry its efforts through.

Certain though I am – and ever more certain – that I must press on in life as though Christ awaited me at the term of the universe, at the same time I feel no special assurance of the existence of Christ. Believing is not seeing. As much as anyone, I imagine, I walk in the shadows of faith.

A wooded winter trail awaits, no footprints pressed upon the snow – a path I dared not once to take but now – I must go.

They… who await. No gifts from Chance, have conquered Fate.

Before making a decision, ask inside for guidance. Be patient and await an answer. Act only when you feel calm and certain.