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We need not take refuge in supernatural gods to explain our saints and sages and heroes and statesmen, as if to explain our disbelief that mere unaided human beings could be that good or wise.
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None of us are saints.
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No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n; But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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To gain your own voice, forget about having it heard. Become a saint of your own province and your own consciousness.
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He who trusts himself is lost. He who trusts in God can do all things.
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He who has lost only those of whose faith and truth he is sure, has not yet reached the depth of human desolation.
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Grace comes often clad in the dusky robe of desolation.
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Who shall contend with time,--unvanquished time, the conqueror of conquerors and lord of desolation?
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It is difficult at times to repress the thought that history is about as instructive as an abattoir; that Tacitus was right and that peace is merely the desolation left behind after the decisive operations of merciless power.
