No star ever rose

Art is Nature made by Man To Man the interpreter of God.

There is a pleasure which is born of pain.

Since we parted, yester eve, I do love thee, love, believe, Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer, One dream deeper, one night stronger, One sun surer,—thus much more Than I loved thee, love, before.

The thing which must be, must be for the best.

For only by knowledge of that which is not Thyself shall thyself be learn'd.

Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem.