If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.

So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.

All the means of action -- the shapeless masses -- the materials -- lie everywhere about us. What we need is the celestial fire to change the flint into the transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius.

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.