Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness?
A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.
The True Church can never fail. For it is based upon a rock.
Past art is subject to change.
Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question