Fear Ringed By Doubt Is My Eternal

God, How Pointless And Empty The World Is! Days Filled With Cheap And Tarnished Moments Succeed Each Other, Restless And Haunted Nights Follow In Bitter Routine: The Sun Shines Without Brightness, And The Moon Rises Without Light. My Heart Has The Taste Of Ashes, And My Throat Is Tight And Weary With Weeping. What Is A Lost Soul? It Is One That Has Turned From Its True Path And Is Groping In The Darkness Of Remembered Ways—

The Consul Felt A Pang. Ah, To Have A Horse, And Gallop Away, Singing, To Someone You Loved Perhaps, Into The Heart Of All The Simplicity And Peace In The World; Was That Not Like The Opportunity Afforded Man By Life Itself? Of Course Not. Still, Just For A Moment, It Had Seemed That It Was.

Muzzle A Dog And He Will Bark Out Of The Other End.

There Was No Mistaking, Even In The Uncertain Light, The Hand, Half Crabbed, Half Generous, And Wholly Drunken, Of The Consul Himself, The Greek E's, The Flying Buttresses Of D's, The T's Like Lonely Wayside Crosses Save Where They Crucified An Entire Word.

Perhaps His Tragedy Is That He Is The One Normal Writer Left On Earth And It Is This That Adds To His Isolation And So To His Sense Of Guilt.