The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.
Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;/ We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death
We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.
Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?
But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.
Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?
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