Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
Truth is truth howe'er it strike.
Would you have your songs endure? Build on the human heart.
Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.