Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything. - Robert Browning

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all! Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men.

Grime is grace
To whoso gropes amid the dung for gold.

Are means to the end, themselves in part the end?
Is fiction which makes fact alive, fact too?