There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be, He too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood.

The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.

Build today, then strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure. Shall tomorrow find its place.

My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.