The Debts We Owe Ourselves Are The

We Are Betrayed By What Is False Within

Darker Grows The Valley, More And More Forgetting: So Were It With Me If Forgetting Could Be Willed. Tell The Grassy Hollow That Holds The Bubbling Well-spring, Tell It To Forget The Source That Keeps It Filled.

There Is Nothing The Body Suffers Which The Soul May Not Profit By.

She Whom I Love Is Hard To Catch And Conquer, Hard, But O The Glory Of The Winning Were She Won!

Not Till The Fire Is Dying In The Grate, Look We For Any Kinship With The Stars.