We are our own fates. Our deeds

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

There is a pleasure which is born of pain.

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

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.

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.