In this treacherous world Nothing is the truth nor a lie. Everything depends on the color Of the crystal through which one sees it
When love is not madness, it is not love.
One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it.
Even in dreams doing good is not wasted.
Our treasures trifles seem, and all our life is dreaming, and the dreams themselves are dreams.
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