Night Brings Out Stars As Sorrow Shows

He Is A Fool Who Is Not For Love And Beauty. I Speak Unto The Young, For I Am Of Them And Always Shall Be.

None But The Brave And Beautiful Can Love.

Look On The Bee Upon The Wing 'mong Flowers; How Brave, How Bright His Life! Then Mark, Him Hiv'd, Cramp'd, Cringing In His Self-built, Social Cell, Thus It Is In The World-hive; Most Where Men Lie Deep In Cities As In Drifts.

Poetry Is Itself A Thing Of God; He Made His Prophets Poets; And The More We Feel Of Poesie Do We Become Like God In Love And Power,-under-makers.

Music Lives Within Thy Lips Like A Nightingale In Roses.