Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.

Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.

So be my passing! My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered in the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death.

Shakespeare and Rembrandt have in common the faculty of quickening speculation and compelling the minds of men to combat and discussion.

I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

Into the winter's gray delight, Into the summer's golden dream, Holy and high and impartial, Death, the mother of Life, Mingles all men for ever.

This is the merit and distinction of art: to be more real than reality, to be not nature but nature's essence.