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

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.

We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.

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

When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.