Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beast's; God is, they are, Man partly is, and wholly hopes to be.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
God is the perfect poet.
