God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human

Dobbin At Manger Pulls His Hay: Gone Is Another Summer's Day.

Slowly, Silently, Now The Moon Walks The Night In Her Silver Shoon.

His Brow Is Seamed With Line And Scar; His Cheek Is Red And Dark As Wine; The Fires As Of A Northern Star Beneath His Cap Of Sable Shine. His Right Hand, Bared Of Leathern Glove, Hangs Open Like An Iron Gin, You Stoop To See His Pulses Move, To Hear The Blood Sweep Out And In. He Looks Some King, So Solitary In Earnest Thought He Seems To Stand, As If Across A Lonely Sea He Gazed Impatient Of The Land. Out Of The Noisy Centuries The Foolish And The Fearful Fade; Yet Burn Unquenched These Warrior Eyes, Time Hath Not Dimmed, Nor Death Dismayed.

Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely, Every Hour

Lear, Macbeth. Mercutio – They Live On Their Own As It Were. The Newspapers Are Full Of Them, If We Were Only The Shakespeares To See It. Have You Ever Been In A Police Court? Have You Ever Watched Tradesmen Behind Their Counters? My Soul, The Secrets Walking In The Streets! You Jostle Them At Every Corner. There's A Polonius In Every First-class Railway Carriage, And As Many Juliets As There Are Boarding-schools. ... How Inexhaustibly Rich Everything Is, If You Only Stick To Life.