The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.

It is vain philosophy that supposes more causes than are exactly adequate to explain the phenomena of things.

Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.

Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.

I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me- who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet!