He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.

How fares it with the happy dead?

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.