How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Of writing many books there is no end.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.

Let us be content to work To do the things we can, and not presume To fret because it's little.

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