Poetry Makes Life What Lights And Music

"it Is A Sensation Not Experienced By Many Mortals," Said He, "to Be Looking Into A Churchyard On A Wild Windy Night, And To Feel That I No More Hold A Place Among The Living Than These Dead Do, And Even To Know That I Lie Buried Somewhere Else, As They Lie Buried Here. Nothing Uses Me To It. A Spirit That Was Once A Man Could Hardly Feel Stranger Or Lonelier, Going Unrecognized Among Mankind, Than I Feel."

"lord Bless You!" Said Mr. Omer, Resuming His Pipe, "a Man Must Take The Fat With The Lean; That's What He Must Make Up His Mind To, In This Life. "

It Is A Pleasant Thing To Reflect Upon, And Furnishes A Complete Answer To Those Who Contend For The Gradual Degeneration Of The Human Species, That Every Baby Born Into The World Is A Finer One Than The Last.

It Was A Foggy Day In London, And The Fog Was Heavy And Dark. Animate London, With Smarting Eyes And Irritated Lungs, Was Blinking, Wheezing, And Choking; Inanimate London Was A Sooty Spectre, Divided In Purpose Between Being Visible And Invisible, And So Being Wholly Neither.

Dead, Your Majesty. Dead, My Lords And Gentlemen. Dead, Right Reverends And Wrong Reverends Of Every Order. Dead, Men And Women, Born With Heavenly Compassion In Your Hearts. And Dying Thus Around Us Every Day.