I should not dare to call my soul my own.
I work with patience, which is almost power.
If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.
This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.
My sun sets to raise again.
The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.