And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, How if our waking life, like that of sleep, Be all a dream in that eternal life To which we wake not till we sleep in death

When love is not madness, it is not love.

Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul Yet uncorrected of the higher will, So that men sometimes in their dreams confess An unsuspected, or forgotten, self; -Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin In missing each that salutory rein Of reason, and the grinding will of man.

A good action is never lost; it is a treasure laid up and guarded for the doer's need.

Our treasures trifles seem, and all our life is dreaming, and the dreams themselves are dreams.

All just laws condemn cruelty.

One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it.