That Which Is Now A

I Stalk About Her Door, Like A Strange Soul Upon The Stygian Banks Staying For Waftage.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.

Ah, What A Sign It Is Of Evil Life, Where Death's Approach Is Seen So Terrible!

We May Outrun By Violent Swiftness And Lose By Over-running.

Hardness Ever Of Hardness Is Mother.