No institution which does not continually test its ideals, techniques and measure of accomplishment can claim real vitality.
Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
Into this wild abyss, The womb of Nature and perhaps her grave.
Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.