Music, When Soft Voices Die

But Hope Will Make Thee Young, For Hope And Youth Are Children Of One Mother, Even Love.

We Live And Move And Think; But We Are Not The Creators Of Our Own Origin And Existence. We Are Not The Arbiters Of Every Motion Of Our Own Complicated Nature; We Are Not The Masters Of Our Own Imaginations And Moods Of Mental Being.

I Cannot Endure The Horror, The Evil, Which Comes To Self In Solitude.

Love's Very Pain Is Sweet

Better Than All Measures Of Delightful Sound, Better Than All Treasures That In Books Are Found, Thy Skill To Poet Were, Thou Scorner Of The Ground!