I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view! . . . . . . Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin; And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is-the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

Truth never hurts the teller.

Death: the grand perhaps.

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

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

One may do whatever one likes. In art, the only thing is, to make sure that one does like it.

Our aspirations are our responsibilities.