Whoever lives true life, will love true love.

His ears were often the first thing to catch my tears.

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.

Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.

Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.

Whoever lives true life, will love true love.

Whoso loves, believes in the impossible