As Is Your Sort Of Mind, So

Other Heights In Other Lives, God Willing.

Ah, But A Man's Reach Should Exceed His Grasp, Or What's A Heaven For?

Such Ever Was Love's Way: To Rise, It Stoops.

How Well I Know What I Mean To Do When The Long Dark Autumn Evenings Come, And Where, My Soul, Is Thy Pleasant Hue? With The Music Of All Thy Voices, Dumb In Life’s November Too! I Shall Be Found By The Fire, Suppose, O’er A Great Wise Book As Beseemeth Age, While The Shutters Flap As The Cross-wind Blows, And I Turn The Page, And I Turn The Page, Not Verse Now, Only Prose!

Every One Soon Or Late Comes Round By Rome.