For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.