One Always Begins To Forgive A Place

Heaven Suits The Back To The Burden.

Marley Was Dead, To Begin With ... This Must Be Distintly Understood, Or Nothing Wonderful Can Come Of The Story I Am Going To Relate.

They Enter, Locking Themselves In, Descend The Rugged Steps, And Are Down In The Crypt. The Lantern Is Not Wanted, For The Moonlight Strikes In At The Groined Windows, Bare Of Glass, The Broken Frames For Which Cast Patterns On The Ground. The Heavy Pillars Which Support The Roof Engender Masses Of Black Shade, But Between Them There Are Lanes Of Light.

He Lowered The Window, And Looked Out At The Rising Sun. There Was A Ridge Of Ploughed Land, With A Plough Upon It Where It Had Been Left Last Night When The Horses Were Unyoked; Beyond, A Quiet Coppice-wood, In Which Many Leaves Of Burning Red And Golden Yellow Still Remained Upon The Trees. Though The Earth Was Cold And Wet, The Sky Was Clear, And The Sun Rose Bright, Placid, And Beautiful.

I Looked At The Stars, And Considered How Awful It Would Be For A Man To Turn His Face Up To Them As He Froze To Death, And See No Help Or Pity In All The Glittering Multitude.