Of All Forms Of Human Error, Prophesy

Even Success Needs Its Consolations.

There Is A Great Deal Of Unmapped Country Within Us.

How Oft Review; Each Finding, Like A Friend, Something To Blame, And Something To Commend.

In Our Spring-time Every Day Has Its Hidden Growths In The Mind, As It Has In The Earth When The Little Folded Blades Are Getting Ready To Pierce The Ground.

Let Thy Chief Terror Be Of Thine Own Soul: There, 'mid The Throng Of Hurrying Desires That Trample O'er The Dead To Seize Their Spoil, Lurks Vengeance, Footless, Irresistible As Exhaltations Laden With Slow Death, And O'er The Fairest Troop Of Captured Joys Breathes Pallid Pestilence.