History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.

Man's yesterday may never be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.

Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.

All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?