For Us To Go To Italy And

The Acrid Scents Of Autumn, Reminiscent Of Slinking Beasts, Make Me Fear

Nothing That Comes From The Deep, Passional Soul Is Bad, Or Can Be Bad.

O Pity The Dead That Are Dead, But Cannot Make The Journey, Still They Moan And Beat Against The Silvery Adamant Walls Of Life's Exclusive City.

I Know The Greatness Of Christianity; It Is A Past Greatness.. I Live In 1924, And The Christian Venture Is Done.

Men Are Free When They Belong To A Living, Organic, Believing Community, Active In Fulfilling Some Unfulfilled, Perhaps Unrealized Purpose.