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Thought, stumbling, plods Past fallen temples, vanished gods, Altars unincensed, fanes undecked, Eternal systems flown or wrecked; Through trackless centuries that grant To the poor trudge refreshment scant, Age after age, pants on to find A melting mirage of the mind.
— Alfred Austin
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This is the sacrifice: the endless possibility that is offered up on the altar of the form.
— Martin Buber
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