Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway

O Magic Sleep! O Comfortable Bird, That Broodest O'er The Troubled Sea Of The Mind Till It Is Hush'd And Smooth!

I Would Sooner Fail Than Not Be Among The Greatest.

Open Afresh Your Rounds Of Starry Folds, Ye Ardent Marigolds.

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.