It is to the credit of human nature that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. - Nathaniel Hawthorne

Oh, for the years I have not lived, but only dreamed of living.

…just as there comes a warm sunbeam into every cottage window, so comes a lovebeam of God's care and pity for every separate need.

"Heaven! What have I done?" exclaimed he. "The vapor, the influence of that brute force,—it has bewildered me and obscured my perception. I have made the very stroke—the fatal stroke—that I have dreaded from the first. It is all over—the toil of months, the object of my life. I am ruined!"
And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered in the socket and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness.