What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings.
A poet must need be before his own age, to be even with posterity
And blessed are the horny hands of toil.
They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin.
Two meanings have our lightest fantasies,- One of the flesh, and of the spirit one.
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity-Zekle.