Children use the fist until they are of age to use the brain.

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I .... In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.

All actual heroes are essential men, And all men possible heroes.