The heights of great men reached and kept, Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upwards in the night.
It is a great art to saunter.
Home-thoughts, from the Sea Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking…
'Are the gods not just?' 'Oh no, child. What would become of us if they were?'
:-?/:)