For myself alone I doubt;
All is well, I know without;
I alone the beauty mar,
I alone the music jar.
Yet, with hands by evil stained,
And an ear by discord pained,
I am groping for the keys
Of the heavenly harmonies.
In the true life, beauty is as important as strength. Strength at its best is always beautiful, but sometimes loveliness is sacrificed to vigour. In these days we hear much about the strenuous life, but the phrase has in it a suggestion of abundant vitality, of an unwearied energy, which may lack the enrichment and refinement which are the ripe fruit of true self culture. At least, the emphasis is put upon the strenuousness, as if that were the dominant quality of the life.
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