Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving; Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.

Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.

Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beast's; God is, they are, Man partly is, and wholly hopes to be.

But facts are facts and flinch not.