To the poet, his travels, his adventures, his loves, his indignations are finally resolved in verse, and this, in the end becomes his permanent, indestructible life.
If thou desire the love of God and man, be humble, for the proud heart, as it loves none but itself, is beloved of none but itself. Humility enforces where neither virtue, nor strength, nor reason can prevail.
Our Heavenly Father loves us. He sent His Only Begotten Son to be our Savior. He knew that in mortality we would be in grave danger, the worst of it from the temptations of a terrible adversary. That is one of the reasons why the Savior has provided priesthood keys so that those with ears to hear and faith to obey could go to places of safety.
The good poet sticks to his real loves, those within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.
He loves his bonds who, when the first are broke, Submits his neck into a second yoke.
Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
If the king loves music, there is little wrong in the land.
The desire for possession is insatiable, to such a point that it can survive even love itself. To love, therefore, is to sterilize the person one loves.
No one loves the man whom he fears.
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.