Love, Smoke And A Cough Cannot Long

How Hard It Is To Make Your Thoughts Look Anything But Imbecile Fools When You Paint Them With Ink On Paper.

Soul, What Have I To Do With You?

There Are Some Of Us Who In After Years Say To Fate, 'now Deal Us Your Hardest Blow, Give Us What You Will; But Let Us Never Again Suffer As We Suffered When We Were Children.' The Barb In The Arrow Of Childhood's Suffering Is This: Its Intense Loneliness, Its Intense Ignorance.

Perhaps The Old Monks Were Right When They Tried To Root Love Out; Perhaps The Poets Are Right When They Try To Water It. It Is A Blood-red Flower, With The Color Of Sin; But There Is Always The Scent Of A God About It.

Now We Have No God. We Have Had Two: The Old God That Our Fathers Handed Down To Us, That We Hated, And Never Liked; The New One That We Made For Ourselves, That We Loved; But Now He Has Flitted Away From Us, And We See What He Was Made Of - The Shadow Of Our Highest Ideal, Crowned And Throned. Now We Have No God.