The Civility Of No Race

When A Man Does Not Write His Poetry, It Escapes By Other Vents Through Him.

Of Immortality, The Soul, When Well Employed, Is Incurious. It Is So Well, That It Is Sure That It Will Be Well. It Asks No Questions Of The Supreme Power.

What Is It Men Love In Genius, But Its Infinite Hope, Which Degrades All It Has Done? Genius Counts All Its Miracles Poor And Short. Its Own Idea It Never Executed.

Play Out The Game, Act Well Your Part, And If The Gods Have Blundered, We Will Not.

Under Every Deep A Lower Deep Opens.