The masters painted for joy, and knew not that virtue had gone out of them. They could not paint the like in cold blood. The masters of English lyric wrote their songs so. It was a fine efflorescence of fine powers.
Ralph Waldo EmersonFate, then, is a name for facts not yet passed under the fire of thought; for causes which are unpenetrated.
Ralph Waldo EmersonNo matter how you seem to fatten on a crime, there can never be good for the bee which is bad for the hive.
Ralph Waldo Emerson