Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing

Neither Prosperity Nor Empire Nor Heaven Can Be Worth Winning At The Price Of A Virulent Temper, Bloody Hands, An Anguished Spirit, And A Vain Hatred Of The Rest Of The World.

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.

For Men To Tell How Human Life Began Is Hard; For Who Himself Beginning Knew?

Ease Would Recant Vows Made In Pain, As Violent And Void.

What Reinforcement We May Gain From Hope; If Not, What Resolution From Despair.