Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.
Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint.
Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.
Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise, That he goes the farthest who goes far enough.
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how.
Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!