World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.

The essence of all beauty, I call love.

A grave, on which to rest from singing?