Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.
Of writing many books there is no end.
Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.
But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!