Man is man, and master of his fate.
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
We needs must love the highest when we see it.
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.