Critics Are Already Made.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Society Is Now One Polished Horde, Formed Of Two Mighty Tries, The Bores And Bored.

He Who Grown Aged In This World Of Woe, In Deeds, Not Years, Piercing The Depths Of Life, So That No Wonder Waits Him.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?