Beauty Awakens The Soul To Act.

I Wept Not — So To Stone I Grew Within.

This Sorrow Weighs Upon The Melancholy Souls Of Those Who Lived Without Infamy Or Praise.

You Shall Find Out How Salt Is The Taste Of Another Man's Bread, And How Hard Is The Way Up And Down Another Man's Stairs.

Lying In A Featherbed Will Bring You No Fame, Nor Staying Beneath The Quilt, And He Who Uses Up His Life Without Achieving Fame Leaves No More Vestige Of Himself On Earth Than Smoke In The Air Or Foam Upon The Water.

Thy Soul Is By Vile Fear Assailed, Which Oft So Overcasts A Man, That He Recoils From Noblest Resolution, Like A Beast At Some False Semblance In The Twilight Gloom.