The things which must be must be for the best.

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.

Alas! must it ever be so? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, And fight our own shadows forever?

Whenever I hear French spoken as I approve, I find myself quietly falling in love.

They only fall, that strive to move, Or lose, that care to keep.

We are but as the instrument of Heaven.

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