More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.

To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and aimable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes man.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.