Off Cape Horn There Are

Once In A Century A Man May Be Ruined Or Made Insufferable By Praise. But Surely Once In A Minute Something Generous Dies For Want Of It.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

State Are Not Made, Nor Patched; They Grow; Grow Slow Through Centuries Of Pain, And Grow Correctly In The Main; But Only Grow By Certain Laws, Of Certain Bits In Certain Jaws.

In The Power And Splendor Of The Universe, Inspiration Waits For The Millions To Come. Man Has Only To Strive For It. Poems Greater Than The Iliad, Plays Greater Than Macbeth, Stories More Engaging Than Don Quixote Await Their Seeker And Finder.

So Shall I Fight, So Shall I Tread, In This Long War Beneath The Stars; So Shall A Glory Wreathe My Head, So Shall I Faint And Show The Scars, Until This Case, This Clogging Mould, Be Smithied All To Kingly Gold.