Thought Is The Soul Of

Most Progress Is Most Failure.

But How Carve Way I' The Life That Lies Before, If Bent On Groaning Ever For The Past?

My Care Is For Myself; Myself Am Whole And Sole Reality.

Men Are Not Angels, Neither Are They Brutes.

Sorrow, The Heart Must Bear, Sits In The Home Of Each, Conspicuous There. Many A Circumstance, At Least, Touches The Very Breast. For Those Whom Any Sent Away,--he Knows: And In The Live Man's Stead, Armor And Ashes Reach The House Of Each.