That low man seeks a little thing to do,
Sees it and does it:
This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.
That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred’s soon hit:
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.

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Progress is
The law of life: man is not Man as yet.

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I give the fight up: let there be an end,
A privacy, an obscure nook for me.
I want to be forgotten even by God.

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Error has no end.

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Autumn wins you best by this its mute
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Truth is within ourselves.

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