Let Us Think Less Of Men And

The Ground Of All Great Thoughts Is Sadness.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

Sorrow Is A Stone That Crushes A Single Bearer To The Ground, While Two Are Able To Carry It With Ease.

For Ivy Climbs The Crumbling Hall To Decorate Decay.