Will Cannot Be Quenched Against Its Will.

All Of Nature Is God's Art.

At Grief So Deep The Tongue Must Wag In Vain; The Language Of Our Sense And Memory Lacks The Vocabulary Of Such Pain.

All Your Renown Is Like The Summer Flower That Blooms And Dies; Because The Sunny Glow Which Brings It Forth, Soon Slays With Parching Power.

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here. [omnes Relinquite Spes, O Vos Intrantes]

…all Things Created Have An Order In Themselves, And This Begets The Form That Lets The Universe Resemble God.