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Thoughts are tyrants that return again and again to torment us.
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Vain are the thousand creeds that move men's hearts, unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, or idlest froth amid the boundless main.
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Cold in the earth - and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!
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Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
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I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.
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