Great sorrow makes sacred the sufferer.

Do not think that years leave us and find us the same!

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.

That man is great, and he alone, Who serves a greatness not his own, For neither praise nor self: Content to know and be unknown: Whole in himself.

Those true eyes, Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise, The sweet soul shining through them.

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

Rest is sweet after strife.