Bald As The Bare Mountain

The Pursuit Of Perfection, Then, Is The Pursuit Of Sweetness And Light.

Poetry Is Simply The Most Beautiful, Impressive, And Widely Effective Mode Of Saying Things.

What Is It To Grow Old? Is It To Lose The Glory Of The Form, The Lustre Of The Eye? Is It For Beauty To Forego Her Wreath? Yes; But Not This Alone.

Nature Herself Seems, I Say, To Take The Pen Out Of His Hand, And To Write For Him With Her Own Bare, Sheer, Penetrating Power.

With Aching Hands And Bleeding Feet We Dig And Heap, Lay Stone On Stone; We Bear The Burden And The Heat Of The Long Day, And Wish 'twere Done. Not Till The Hours Of Light Return All We Have Built Do We Discern.