Write . . . Write . .

The Eyes Of Spring, So Azure, Are Peeping From The Ground; They Are The Darling Violets, That I In Nosegays Bound.

And Once Again We Plighted Our Troth, And Titter'd, Caress'd, Kiss'd So Dearly.

But A Day Must Come When The Fire Of Youth Will Be Quenched In My Veins, When Winter Will Dwell In My Heart, When His Snow Flakes Will Whiten My Locks, And His Mists Will Dim My Eyes. Then My Friends Will Lie In Their Lonely Grave, And I Alone Will Remain Like A Solitary Stalk Forgotten By The Reaper.

You Cannot Feed The Hungry On Statistics.

From Every Englishman Emanates A Kind Of Gas, The Deadly Choke-damp Of Boredom.