March on. Do not tarry. To go forward is to move toward perfection. March on, and fear not the thorns, or the sharp stones on life's path.
The tears that you spill, the sorrowful, are sweeter than the laughter of snobs and the guffaws of scoffers.
Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.
What difference is there between us, save a restless dream that follows my soul but fears to come near you?
Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow.