This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes; Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state; Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause; Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax; Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy; Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs; And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men!

truth outlives pain, as the soul does life.

And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.

Love that endures, from life that disappears!

Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?

The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.