No, when the fight begins within himself, / A man's worth something.

Paracelsus At times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages’ way, And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance Ages ago; and in that act a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light let in by death, That life was blotted out — not so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again.

A pretty woman's worth some pains to see.

Imperfection means perfection hid.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.