Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.

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

All poetry is putting the infinite within the finite.

Faultless to a fault.

Look not down but up!

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view! . . . . . . Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin; And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is-the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts.