How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! As tho’ to breathe were life.
Yet I doubt not thro’ the ages one increasing purpose runs, and the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.
What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, tho’ the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy’s?
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother’s shame; however we brave it out, we men are a little breed.