Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.
Man is man, and master of his fate.
Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.
What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.
He is all fault who has no fault at all.
The year is dying in the night.