There is a budding morrow in midnight.
Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
Load every rift with ore.
Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
... for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst - that I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.