All This I Bear, For,

A Wanderer Is Man From His Birth. He Was Born In A Ship On The Breast Of The River Of Time.

Thou Waitest For The Spark From Heaven! And We, Light Half-believers Of Our Casual Creeds, Who Never Deeply Felt, Nor Clearly Will'd, Whose Insight Never Has Borne Fruit In Deeds, Whose Vague Resolves Never Have Been Fulfill'd; For Whom Each Year We See Breeds New Beginnings, Disappointments New; Who Hesitate And Falter Life Away, And Lose To-morrow The Ground Won To-day Ah! Do Not We, Wanderer! Await It Too?

Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

The Greek Word Euphuia, A Finely Tempered Nature, Gives Exactly The Notion Of Perfection As Culture Brings Us To Perceive It; A Harmonious Perfection, A Perfection In Which The Characters Of Beauty And Intelligence Are Both Present, Which Unites "the Two Noblest Of Things" - As Swift Most Happily Calls Them In His Battle Of The Books, "the Two Noblest Of Things, Sweetness And Light."

Youth Dreams A Bliss On This Side Of Death. It Dreams A Rest, If Not More Deep, More Grateful Than This Marble Sleep; It Hears A Voice Within It Tell: Calm's Not Life's Crown, Though Calm Is Well. 'tis All Perhaps Which Man Acquires, But 'tis Not What Our Youth Desires.