There is nothing certain in a man's life but that he must lose it.

No star ever rose or set without influence somewhere.

The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling, where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day.

No life can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife, and all life not be purer and stronger thereby.

Heaven's slow but sure redress of human ills.

Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem.

Great sorrow makes sacred the sufferer.