Epigraph
Whatsoever is beginning that is done by human skill,
Every daring emanation of the mind’s imperfect will;
Every first impulse of passion, gush of love or twinge of hate;
Every launch upon the waters, wide horizoned by our fate;
Every venture in the chances of life’s sad, aye, desperate game;
Whatsoever be our object, whatsoever be our aim—
’Tis well we cannot see
What the end will be.