Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.
Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.
Is not Precedent indeed a King of men? A Word from the Psalmist.
Time stoops to no man's lure.
I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.
When fate has allowed to any man more than one great gift, accident or necessity seems usually to contrive that one shall encumber and impede the other.