Poetry, Like Love, Is Something We Never

Man Partly Is And Wholly Hopes To Be.

The Devil, That Old Stager, Who Leads Downward, Perhaps, But Fiddles All The Way!

I Know What I Want And What I Might Gain, And Yet, How Profitless To Know.

In This World, Who Can Do A Thing, Will Not; And Who Would Do It, Cannot, I Perceive: Yet The Will's Somewhat — Somewhat, Too, The Power — And Thus We Half-men Struggle.

In The First Is The Last, In Thy Will Is My Power To Believe.