O Have A Care Of Natures That

The Future Not Being Born, My Friend, We Will Abstain From Baptizing It.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

Comedy Is A Game Played To Throw Reflections Upon Social Life, And It Deals With Human Nature In The Drawing-room Of Civilized Men And Women, Where We Have No Dust Of The Struggling Outer World, No Mire, No Violent Crashes, To Make The Correctness Of The Representation Convincing.

Not Till The Fire Is Dying In The Grate, Look We For Any Kinship With The Stars. Oh, Wisdom Never Comes When It Is Gold, And The Great Price We Paid For It Full Worth: We Have It Only When We Are Half Earth. Little Avails That Coinage To The Old!

We Are Betrayed By What Is False Within