How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!
A book in shape but, really, pure crude fact Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard, And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since. Give it me back! The thing's restorative I'the touch and sight.
Ambition is not what man does... but what man would do.
Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beast's; God is, they are, Man partly is, and wholly hopes to be.
No, when the fight begins within himself, A man's worth something.
Tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do.
Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?
When is man strong until he feels alone?
Progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beasts': God is, they are, Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.
When the fight begins within himself, A man 's worth something.
What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.