He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
From Elizabeth Barrett Browning
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
He said true things, but called them by wrong names.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
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