And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.
No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.
If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?
No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.
I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.
Myself I must remake.