Fortime, Not Corydon, Hath Conquered Thee.

And Amongst Us One, Who Most Has Suffer'd, Takes Dejectedly His Seat Upon The Intellectual Throne.

Greatness Is A Spiritual Condition.

And See All Sights From Pole To Pole, And Glance, And Nod, And Hustle By; And Never Once Possess Our Soul Before We Die.

Below The Surface Stream, Shallow And Light, Of What We Say And Feel Below The Stream, As Light, Of What We Think We Feel, There Flows With Noiseless Current, Strong, Obscure And Deep, The Central Stream Of What We Feel Indeed.

Weary Of Myself, And Sick Of Asking What I Am, And What I Ought To Be, At This Vessel's Prow I Stand, Which Bears Me Forwards, Forwards, O'er The Starlit Sea.