We are but as the instrument of Heaven.

There is purpose in pain; otherwise it were devilish.

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

Only by knowledge of that which is not thyself, shall thyself be learned.

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.

We gain justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain.

Rest is sweet after strife.