beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade

And lo, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old, Where life and death like friendly chafferers meet.

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

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies.

Behold me waiting—waiting for the knife.... The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform, The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.... [F]ace to face with chance, I shrink a little: My hopes are strong, my will is something weak. ...I am ready But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: You carry Cæsar and his fortunes—steady!

O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one." (Between the Dusk of a Summer Night, 13-16)

I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.