While three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three.
For words divide and rend But silence is most noble till the end.
Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.
Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?
Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.
The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.