Chicago Sounds Rough To The Maker Of

Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel Of Life Winds Them Up Once For All, Then Closes The Case, And Gives The Key Into The Hand Of The Angel Of The Resurrection.

And If I Should Live To Be The Last Leaf Upon The Tree In The Spring, Let Them Smile, As I Do Now, At The Old Forsaken Bough Where I Cling.

To Obtain A Man's Opinion Of You, Make Him Mad.

As We Grow Older We Think More And More Of Old Persons And Of Old Things And Places. As To Old Persons, It Seems As If We Never Know How Much They Have To Tell Until We Are Old Ourselves And They Have Been Gone Twenty Or Thirty Years. Once In A While We Come Upon Some Survivor Of His Or Her Generation That We Have Overlooked, And Feel As If We Had Recovered One Of The Lost Books Of Livy Or Fished Up The Golden Candlestick From The Ooze Of The Tiber.

Chicago Sounds Rough To The Maker Of Verse. One Comfort We Have - Cincinnati Sounds Worse.