This Strange Disease Of Modern

Greatness Is A Spiritual Condition.

If Paris That Brief Flight Allow, My Humble Tomb Explore! It Bears: Eternity, Be Thou My Refuge! And No More.

Not Deep The Poet Sees, But Wide.

This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With Its Sick Hurry, Its Divided Aims.

All Pains The Immortal Spirit Must Endure, All Weakness That Impairs, All Griefs That Bow, Find Their Sole Voice In That Victorious Brow.