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.

In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.

The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.

Life and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and feel, is an astonishing thing. The mist of familiarity obscures from us the wonder of our being. We are struck with admiration at some of its transient modifications, but it is itself the great miracle.

One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it.

True love in this differs from gold and clay, that to divide is not to take away. Love is like understanding, that grows bright, gazing on many truths.

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