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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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Is death the last step? No, it is the final awakening.
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One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honor or observation.
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But search the land of living men, Wher wilst thou find their like again.
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Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
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