The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
Praise is deeper than the lips
Why stay on the earth except to grow.
I dare not so honor my mere wishes and prayers as to put them for a moment beside your noble acts; but this know, I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured on the pretence of sparing me a twinge or two.
I know what I want and what I might gain, and yet, how profitless to know.
There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with for evil so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.