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.

Words, however, are things.

No star ever rose or set without influence somewhere.

There is a pleasure that is born of pain.

Great sorrow makes sacred the sufferer.

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

No true love there can be without Its dread penalty--jealousy.