The Depth Of Our Despair Measures What

All Work, Even Cotton-spinning, Is Noble; Work Is Alone Noble.

He Who Would Write Heroic Poems Should Make His Whole Life A Heroic Poem.

Of All God's Creatures, Man Alone Is Poor.

Happy Season Of Virtuous Youth, When Shame Is Still An Impassable Barrier, And The Sacred Air-cities Of Hope Have Not Shrunk Into The Mean Clay Hamlets Of Reality; And Man, By His Nature, Is Yet Infinite And Free.

Venerable To Me Is The Hard Hand,--crooked, Coarse,--wherein, Notwithstanding, Lies A Cunning Virtue, Indispensably Royal As Of The Sceptre Of The Planet.