The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy?

Good to forgive, Best to forget.

How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!

Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.

There are those who believe something, and therefore will tolerate nothing; and on the other hand, those who tolerate everything, because they believe nothing.

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