The Life Of A Man Consists Not

With Useless Endeavour Forever, Forever, Is Sisyphus Rolling His Stone Up The Mountain!

Every Great Poem Is In Itself Limited By Necessity, But In Its Suggestions Unlimited And Infinite.

The Twilight That Surrounds The Border-land Of Old Romance.

So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go, Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.

Sunday Is The Golden Clasp That Binds Together The Volume Of The Week.