Progress is The law of life, man is not man as yet

And gain is gain, however small

How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy

White shall not neutralize the black, nor good Compensate bad in man, absolve him so Life's business being just the terrible choice

Take away love and our earth is a tomb

The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate

God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod

God is the perfect poet, / Who in his person acts his own creations

All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white, we call it black

But facts are facts and flinch not