The sun in his golden chariot had driven almost to the last meadow of the sky. - Tanith Lee

And in the manner of this ideal we strive, though even that not too onerously. For piety itself may be used to make a chain about the soul.

I had a rare wine in my blood. Expiation was over, guilt washed out, terror canceled.

Within, in the lowest region of her soul and mind, unknown to herself, she was still a small voice crying for another glory to salve her hurts. She must better the best, none must withstand her, she must conquer what others dare not face, drink seas and trample mountains. She would never rest till death, the last battle, made mockery of all her victories.