Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

But, When The Goddess' Work Is Done,the Woman's Still Remains.

Your Voices Break And Falter In The Darkness, Break, Falter, And Are Still.

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

For The Glory Born Of Goodness Never Dies, And Its Flag Is Not Half-masted In The Skies.

Crude At First [the Short Story] Received A Literary Polish In The Press, But Its Dominant Quality Remained. It Was Concise And Condense, Yet Suggestive. It Was Delightfully Extravagant - Or A Miracle Of Understatement