Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With

I Shall Show The Cinders Of My Spirits Through The Ashes Of My Chance.

Winter's Not Gone Yet, If The Wild Geese Fly That Way.

Where Every Something, Being Blent Together Turns To A Wild Of Nothing.

Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet She Will Plod.

No Profit Grows Where No Pleasure Is Taken.