Such Power There Is In Clear-eyed Self-restraint.

It Is Not Without Reason That Fame Is Awarded Only After Death. The Cloud-dust Of Notoriety Which Follows And Envelops The Men Who Drive With The Wind Bewilders Contemporary Judgment.

Who Gives Himself With His Alms Feeds Three, Himself, His Hungering Neighbor And Me.

The Stiff Rails Were Softened To Swan's-down, And Still Fluttered Down The Snow.

Some Day The Soft Ideal That We Wooed Confronts Us Fiercely, Foe-beset, Pursued, And Cries Reproachful: Was It Then My Praise, And Not Myself Was Loved? Prove Now Thy Truth; I Claim Of Thee The Promise Of Thy Youth.

What Men Call Luck Is The Prerogative Of Valiant Souls, The Fealty Life Pays Its Rightful Kings.