Whatever Limits Us We Call Fate.

Things Are Pretty, Graceful, Rich, Elegant, Handsome, But, Until They Speak To The Imagination, Not Yet Beautiful.

To Have Played And Laughed With Enthusiasm, And Sung With Exultation - This To To Have Succeeded.

For, Rightly, Every Man Is A Channel Through Which Heaven Floweth, And, Whilst I Fancied I Was Criticising Him, I Was Censuring Orrather Terminating My Own Soul.

There Is Simply The Rose; It Is Perfect In Every Moment Of Its Existence.

Every Calamity Is A Spur And A Valuable Hint.