But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills, And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me, And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. - Tithonus

More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.

This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.

We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.