Great sorrow makes sacred the sufferer.

Truth makes on the ocean of nature no one track of light; every eye, looking on, finds its own.

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.

Art is Nature made by Man, To Man the interpreter of God.

No star ever rose or set without influence somewhere.

Heaven's slow but sure redress of human ills.

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