The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!
Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked! I do not.
God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.
But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
Love is the energy of life.
And gain is gain, however small.