One Thing Only Has Been Lent To

France, Famed In All Great Arts, In None Supreme.

Wandering Between Two Worlds, One Dead, The Other Powerless To Be Born.

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.

And See All Sights From Pole To Pole, And Glance, And Nod, And Hustle By; And Never Once Possess Our Soul Before We Die.

Journalism Is Literature In A Hurry.