From the death of the old the new proceeds, and the life of truth from the death of creeds.

We search the world for truth; We cull the good, the pure, the beautiful, From all old flower fields of the soul; And weary seekers of the best, We come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages said, Is in the Book our mothers read

As a small businessperson, you have no greater leverage than the truth.

Clothe with life the weak intent, let me be the thing I meant

Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.

Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!