No Honest Theologian Therefore Can Deny That

The Butterfly, A Cabbage-white, (his Honest Idiocy Of Flight) Will Never Now, It Is Too Late, Master The Art Of Flying Straight.

There's A Cool Web Of Language Winds Us In, Retreat From Too Much Joy Or Too Much Fear: We Grow Sea-green At Last And Coldly Die In Brininess And Volubility.

I Do Not Love The Sabbath, The Soapsuds And The Starch, The Troops Of Solemn People Who To Salvation March. I Take My Book, I Take My Stick On The Sabbath Day, In Woody Nooks And Valleys I Hide Myself Away. To Ponder There In Quiet God's Universal Plan, Resolved That Church And Sabbath Were Never Made For Man.

There Is No Such Thing As Good Writing, Only Good Rewriting.

Kaisers And Czars Will Strut The Stage Once More With Pomp And Greed And Rage; Courtly Ministers Will Stop At Home And Fight To The Last Drop; By The Million Men Will Die In Some New Horrible Agony.