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We cannot live better than in seeking to become better.
O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude...
We filigree and we baste. But what do the dead care for the fringe of words, Safe in their suits of milk? What do they care for the honk and flash of a new style?
And who is to say if the inch of snow in our hearts Is rectitude enough?