Mountain gorses, do ye teach us . . . . That the wisest word man reaches Is the humblest he can speak?
The plague of gold strikes far and near.
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
Books succeed; and lives fail.
Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.
And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.
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