I hold that a man should strive to the uttermost for his life's set prize.
The only fault's with time; All men become good creatures: but so slow!
Oh the wild joys of living! The leaping from rock to rock ... the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living waters.
Of what I call God, And fools call Nature.
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.
Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?