Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.

Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?

Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.

Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

But how carve way i' the life that lies before, If bent on groaning ever for the past?

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.

Our aspirations are our responsibilities.