There Is A Time When

Nor Does Night Conceal Men's Deeds Of Ill, But Whatsoe'er Thou Dost, Think That Some God Beholds It.

Still To The Sufferer Comes, As Due From God, A Glory That To Suffering Owes Its Birth.

Art Is Far Feebler Than Necessity.

By Suffering Comes Wisdom.

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.