Oh, could we lift the future's sable shroud.
Leave the poor Some time for self-improvement. Let them not Be forced to grind the bones out of their arms For bread, but have some space to think and feel Like moral and immortal creatures.
How slight a chance may raise or sink a soul!
The truth of truths is love.
Where imperfection ceaseth, heaven begins.
He is a fool who is not for love and beauty. I speak unto the young, for I am of them and always shall be.