Life, Struck Sharp On Death, Makes Awful

You May Write Twenty Lines One Day--or Even Three Like Euripides In Three Days--and A Hundred Lines In One More Day--and Yet On The Hundred, May Have Been Expended As Much Good Work, As On The Twenty And The Three.

God Keeps A Niche In Heaven, To Hold Our Idols; And Albeit He Brake Them To Our Faces, And Denied That Our Close Kisses Should Impair Their White,-- I Know We Shall Behold Them Raised, Complete, The Dust Swept From Their Beauty, Glorified, New Memnons Singing In The Great God-light.

Measure Not The Work Until The Day's Out And The Labor Done.

We Have Hearts Within, Warm, Live, Improvident, Indecent Hearts.

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.