The spark divine dwells in thee: let it grow.

It has ever been since time began, and ever will be, till time lose breath, that love is a mood - no more - to man, and love to a woman is life or death.

You are your own devil, you are your own God, You fashioned the paths that your footsteps have trod, And no one can save you from error or sin, Until you shall hark to the Spirit within.

Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait, And die at last with unappeased desire, Than live to be the jest of such a fate, For that is my conception of hell-fire.

There is no balking genius. Only death can silence it or hinder.

So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind while just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs.

There is no language that love does not speak.