For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.
With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!
The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.
There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!
If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.
An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.