When love is not madness it is not love.

In this treacherous worldNothing is the truth nor a lie.Everything depends on the colorOf the crystal through which one sees it

one may know how to gain victory, and know not how to use it

Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul Yet uncorrected of the higher will, So that men sometimes in their dreams confessAn unsuspected, or forgotten, self; -Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akinIn missing each that salutory reinOf reason, and the grinding will of man.

For even in dreams a good deed is not lost.