Rhyme, that enslaved queen, that supreme charm of our poetry, that creator of our meter.
It is ourselves we have to fear. Prejudice is the real robber, and vice the real murderer.
Dreaming is happiness. Waiting is life.
Perseverance, secret of all triumphs.
We are given up to those gods, those monsters, those giants, — our thoughts.
Strong and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a stepmother, is sometimes a mother; privation gives birth to power of soul and mind; distress is the nurse of self-respect; misfortune is a good breast for great souls.