No Great Inner Event Befalls Those Who

No Living Creature, Not Even Man, Has Achieved, In The Centre Of His Sphere, What The Bee Has Achieved In Her Own: And Were Some One From Another World To Descend And Ask Of The Earth The Most Perfect Creation Of The Logic Of Life, We Should Needs Have To Offer The Humble Comb Of Honey.

No Great Inner Event Befalls Those Who Summon It Not

What Man Is There That Does Not Laboriously, Though All Unconsciously, Himself Fashion The Sorrow That Is To Be The Pivot Of His Life.

I Have Never For One Instant Seen Clearly Within Myself. How Then Would You Have Me Judge The Deeds Of Others?

Brave Old-flowers! Wall-flowers, Gilly Flowers, Stocks! For Even As The Field-flowers, From Which A Trifle, A Ray Of Beauty, A Drop Of Perfume, Divides Them, They Have Charming Names, The Softest In The Language; And Each Of Them, Like Tiny, Art-less Ex-votos, Or Like Medals Bestowed By The Gratitude Of Men, Proudly Bears Three Or Four.