An ideal's love-fraught, imperious call That bides the spheres become articulate.
One never learns by success. Success is the plateau that one rests upon to take breath and look down from upon the straight and difficult path, but one does not climb upon a plateau.
This is a marvel of the universe: To fling a thought across a stretch of sky-- Some weighty message, or a yearning cry, It matters not; the elements rehearse Man's urgent utterance, and his words traverse The spacious heav'ns like homing birds that fly Unswervingly, until, upreached on high, A quickened hand plucks off the message terse.
The little Road says, Go; The little House says, Stay; And oh, it's bonny here at home, But I must go away.
