Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

All Things Must Change To Something New, To Something Strange.

I See, But Cannot Reach, The Height That Lies Forever In The Light.

Where'er A Noble Deed Is Wrought, Where'er Is Spoken A Noble Thought, Our Hearts In Glad Surprise To Higher Levels Rise.

The Morrow Was A Bright September Morn; The Earth Was Beautiful As If Newborn; There Was Nameless Splendor Everywhere, That Wild Exhilaration In The Air, Which Makes The Passers In The City Street Congratulate Each Other As They Meet.

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, — The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.