No Man Is Good Enough

To Happy Folkall Heaviest Words No More Of Meaning Bearthan Far-off Bells Saddening The Summer Air.

The Past Is Not Dead, It Is Living In Us, And Will Be Alive In The Future Which We Are Now Helping To Make.

Simplicity Of Life, Even The Barest, Is Not A Misery, But The Very Foundation Of Refinement; A Sanded Floor And Whitewashed Walls And The Green Trees, And Flowery Meads, And Living Waters Outside; Or A Grimy Palace Amid The Same With A Regiment Of Housemaids Always Working To Smear The Dirt Together So That It May Be Unnoticed; Which, Think You, Is The Most Refined, The Most Fit For A Gentleman Of Those Two Dwellings?

In Prison Wearily, Drearily, Half The Day Long, Flap The Great Banners High Over The Stone; Strangely And Eerily Sounds The Wind's Song, Bending The Banner-poles. While, All Alone, Watching The Loophole's Spark, Lie I, With Life All Dark, Feet Tethered, Hands Fettered Fast To The Stone, The Grim Walls, Square Lettered With Prisoned Men's Groan. Still Strain The Banner-poles Through The Wind's Song, Westward The Banner Rolls Over My Wrong.

From Out The Throng And Stress Of Lies, From Out The Painful Noise Of Sighs, One Voice Of Comfort Seems To Rise: "it Is The Meaner Part That Dies."