Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.

Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.

Of writing many books there is no end.

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

Much of the possibility of being cheerful comes from the faculty of throwing oneself beyond oneself.

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

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.