It Is Not Without Reason That Fame

Democracy Is That Form Of Society, No Matter What Its Political Classification, In Which Every Man Has A Chance And Knows That He Has It.

Things Always Seem Fairer When We Look Back At Them, And It Is Out Of That Inaccessible Tower Of The Past That Longing Leans And Beckons.

The Pale And Quiet Moon Makes Her Calm Forehead Bare, And The Last Fragments Of The Storm, Like Shattered Rigging From A Fight At Sea, Silent And Few, Are Drifting Over Me.

The Realm Of Death Seems An Enemy's Country To Most Men, On Whose Shores They Are Loathly Driven By Stress Of Weather; To The Wise Man It Is The Desired Port Where He Moors His Bark Gladly, As In Some Quiet Haven Of The Fortunate Isles; It Is The Golden West Into Which His Sun Sinks, And, Sinking, Casts Back A Glory Upon The Leaden Cloud-tack Which Had Darkly Besieged His Day.

And What Is So Rare As A Day In June? Then, If Ever, Come Perfect Days.