The Poet Has To Make A Synthesis

Life Is One Long Struggle To Disinter Oneself, To Keep One's Head Above The Accumulations, The Ever Deepening Layers Of Objects ... Which Attempt To Cover One Over, Steadily, Almost Irresistibly, Like Falling Snow.

Churches Are Wonderful And Beautiful, And They Are Vehicles For Religion, But No Church Can Have More Than A Very Little Of The Truth.

We Know One Another's Faults, Virtues, Catastrophes, Mortifications, Triumphs, Rivalries, Desires, And How Long We Can Each Hang By Our Hands To A Bar. We Have Been Banded Together Under Pack Codes And Tribal Laws.

They... Threw Themselves Into The Interests Of The Rest, But Each Plowed His Or Her Own Furrow. Their Thoughts, Their Little Passions And Hopes And Desires, All Ran Along Separate Lines. Family Life Is Like This - Animated, But Collateral.

So They Left The Subject And Played Croquet, Which Is A Very Good Game For People Who Are Annoyed With One Another, Giving Many Opportunities For Venting Rancor.