Desiring Always To Be In Mourning, He

A Stout Heart May Be Ruined In Fortune But Not In Spirit.

A Fixed Idea Ends In Madness Or Heroism.

When The Heart Is Dry The Eye Is Dry.

Winter Is On My Head, But Eternal Spring Is In My Heart; I Breathe At This Hour The Fragrance Of The Lilacs, The Violets, And The Roses, As At Twenty Years Ago.

And The Dream That Our Mind Had Sketched In Haste Shall Others Continue, But Never Complete. For None Upon Earth Can Achieve His Scheme; The Best As The Worst Are Futile Here: We Wake At The Self-same Point Of The Dream, All Is Here Begun, And Finished Elsewhere.