There Is Music In All Things, If

He Who Surpasses Or Subdues Mankind, Must Look Down On The Hate Of Those Below.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

A Sleep Without Dreams, After A Rough Day Of Toil, Is What We Covet Most; And Yet How Clay Shrinks Back From More Quiescent Clay! The Very Suicide That Pays His Debt At Once Without Installments (an Old Way Of Paying Debts, Which Creditors Regret) Lets Out Impatiently His Rushing Breath, Less From Disgust Of Life Than Dread Of Death.

The Truly Brave Are Soft Of Heart And Eyes, And Feel For What Their Duty Bids Them Do.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!