They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.
What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
At last awake from life, that insane dream we take for waking now.
Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.
That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
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.