The Desire Of Gold Is Not For

The Beautiful Laws Of Time And Space, Once Dislocated By Our Inaptitude, Are Holes And Dens. If The Hive Be Disturbed By Rash And Stupid Hands, Instead Of Honey, It Will Yield Us Bees.

You Cannot Institute, Without Peril Of Charlatanism.

Cut These Words And They Would Bleed; They Are Vascular And Alive.

The Beautiful Rests On The Foundations Of The Necessary.

Truth Gathers Itself Spotless And Unhurt After All Our Surrenders And Concealments And Partisanship; Never Hurt By The Treachery Or Ruin Of Its Best Defenders, Whether Luther, Or William Penn, Or St. Paul.