The Red Sun Was Pasted In The

Xxviii "truth," Said A Traveller, "is A Rock, A Mighty Fortress; "often Have I Been To It, "even To Its Highest Tower, "from Whence The World Looks Black." "truth," Said A Traveller, "is A Breath, A Wind, "a Shadow, A Phantom; "long Have I Pursued It, "but Never Have I Touched "the Hem Of Its Garment." And I Believed The Second Traveller; For Truth Was To Me A Breath, A Wind, A Shadow, A Phantom, And Never Had I Touched The Hem Of Its Garment.

Do Not Weep, Babe, For War Is Kind.because Your Father Tumbled In The Yellow Trenches,raged At His Breast, Gulped And Died,do Not Weep.war Is Kind.

Philosophy Should Always Know That Indifference Is A Militant Thing. It Batters Down The Walls Of Cities And Murders The Women And Children Amid The Flames And The Purloining Of Altar Vessels. When It Goes Away It Leaves Smoking Ruins, Where Lie Citizens Bayonetted Through The Throat. It Is Not A Children's Pastime Like Mere Highway Robbery.

When It Came Night, The White Waves Paced To And Fro In The Moonlight, And The Wind Brought The Sound Of The Great Sea's Voice To The Men On Shore, And They Felt That They Could Then Be Interpreters.

In The Swirling Rain That Came At Dusk The Broad Avenue Glistened With That Deep Bluish Tint Which Is So Widely Condemned When It Is Put Into Pictures.