A giant as we hoped, in truth, a dwarf; A barrel of slop that shines on Lethe's wharf', Which at first seemed a vessel with sweet wine For thirsty lips. So down the swift decline You went through sloven spirit, craven heart And cynic indolence. And here the art Of molding clay has caught you for the nonce And made your shame our shame ~ Your head in bronze!

He stripped off the armor of institutional friendships To dedictate his soul To the terrible deities of Truth and Beauty.

How shall the soul of a man be larger than the life he has lived?

The tongue may be an unruly member-- But silence poisons the soul.

This is a man with an old face, always old... There was pathos, in his face, and in his eyes. The early weariness; and sometimes tears in his eyes, Which he let slip unconsciously on his cheek, Or brushed away with an unconcerned hand. There were tears for human suffering, or for a glance Into the vast futility of life, Which he had seen from the first, being old When he was born.

. . . the weal of the race, and the cause of humanity, here and now, are enough To give life meaning and death as well.

Immortality is not a gift, Immortality is an achievement; And only those who strive mightily Shall possess it.