Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
Her virtue and the conscience of her worth, That would be woo'd, and not unsought be won.
Methought I saw my late espoused saint.
Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
That virtue therefore which is but a youngling in the contemplation of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice promises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure; her whiteness is but an excremental whiteness.
No institution which does not continually test its ideals, techniques and measure of accomplishment can claim real vitality.