At Twenty Every One Is Republican.

Shall Not This Bygone Eden That We Knew In Our Eternal Life Have Shape And Hue? For Where Time Is Not Shall Not All Time Be? In That Calm Breast Whereto Our Souls Are Cleaving Shall We Not Find Our Loved Ones Beyond Grieving About The Hearth-stone Of Eternity?

What Mortal Is There, Over Whose First Joys And Happiness Does Not Break Some Storm, Dispelling With Its Icy Breath His Fanciful Illusions, And Shattering His Altar?

Every Time That A People Which Has Long Crouched In Slavery And Ignorance Is Moved To Its Lowest Depths There Appear Monsters And Heroes, Prodigies Of Crime And Prodigies Of Virtue.

Men Are Misers, And Women Prodigal, In Affection.

To Love For The Sake Of Being Loved Is Human, But To Love For The Sake Of Loving Is Angelic.