And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
Better not be at all than not be noble.
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
We needs must love the highest when we see it.