You Shall Learn, Though Late, The Lesson

The Seed Of Mortals Broods O'er Passing Things, And Hath Nought Surer Than The Smoke-cloud's Shadow.

For Wherein Is Life Sweet To Him Who Suffers Grief?

Base Men Who Prosper Are Unenviable.

He Who Learns Must Suffer. And Even In Our Sleep Pain That Cannot Forget Falls Drop By Drop Upon The Heart, And In Our Own Despair, Against Our Will, Comes Wisdom To Us By The Awful Grace Of God.

A People's Wrath Voiced Abroad Bringeth Grave Danger, No Less Than Public Curse Pronounced.