Why Is A Raven Like A Writing

In Another Moment Down Went Alice After It, Never Once Considering How In The World She Was To Get Out Again.

Lastly, She Pictured To Herself How This Same Little Sister Of Hers Would, In The After-time, Be Herself A Grown Woman; And How She Would Keep, Through All Her Riper Years, The Simple And Loving Heart Of Her Childhood: And How She Would Gather About Her Other Little Children, And Make Their Eyes Bright And Eager With Many A Strange Tale, Perhaps Even With The Dream Of Wonderland Of Long Ago: And How She Would Feel With All Their Simple Sorrows, And Find A Pleasure In All Their Simple Joys, Remembering Her Own Child-life, And The Happy Summer Days.

Be Sure The Safest Rule Is That We Should Not Dare To Live In Any Scene In Which We Dare Not Die. But, Once Realise What The True Object Is In Life — That It Is Not Pleasure, Not Knowledge, Not Even Fame Itself, 'that Last Infirmity Of Noble Minds' — But That It Is The Development Of Character, The Rising To A Higher, Nobler, Purer Standard, The Building-up Of The Perfect Man — And Then, So Long As We Feel That This Is Going On, And Will (we Trust) Go On For Evermore, Death Has For Us No Terror; It Is Not A Shadow, But A Light; Not An End, But A Beginning!

Alice! A Childish Story Take, And With A Gentle Hand, Lay It Where Childhood's Dreams Are Twined In Memory's Mystic Band, Like Pilgrim's Withered Wreath Of Flowers Plucked In Far-off Land.

Will You, Won't You, Will You, Won't You, Will You Join The Dance?