It is little men know of women; their smiles and their tears alike are seldom what they seem.
It is only in sorrow bad weather masters us; in joy we face the storm and defy it.
Old age is the verdict of life.
But the lover's power is the poet's power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung.
This world is run with far too tight a rein for luck to interfere. Fortune sells her wares; she never gives them. In some form or other, we pay for her favors; or we go empty away.
But what do we know of the heart nearest to our own? What do we know of our own heart?
