Liv

And what a world for each Must somehow be i' the soul,--accept that mode of speech,-- Whether an aura gird the soul, wherein it seems To float and move, a belt of all the glints and gleams It struck from out that world, its weaklier fellows found So dead and cold; or whether these not so much surround, As pass into the soul itself, add worth to worth, As wine enriches blood, and straightway send it forth, Conquering and to conquer, through all eternity, That 's battle without end.