Who knows but the world may end tonight

Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.

Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

If all the world is a stage and life is just a play upon it, get me two seats in the stalls.

Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.

That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.