Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite And to our age’s drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.

As life runs on, the road grows strange with faces new - and near the end. The milestones into headstones change, Neath every one a friend.

It is only the intellect that can be thoroughly and hideously wicked. It can forget everything in the attainment of its ends. The heart recoils; in its retired some drops of childhood's dew still linger, defying manhood's fiery noon.

No man can produce great things who is not thoroughly sincere in dealing with himself, who would not exchange the finest show for the poorest reality, who does not so love his work that he is not only glad to give himself for it, but finds rather a gain than a sacrifice in the surrender.

Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

The brain can be easy to buy, but the heart never comes to market.

Greatly begin. Though thou have time, but for a line, be that sublime. Not failure, but low aim is crime.