The Sight Of Me Is Good For

They Are Man's And They Cling To Me, Appealing From Their Fathers. This Boy Is Ignorance And This Girl Is Want. Beware Them Both, And All Of Their Degree, But Most Of All Beware This Boy For On His Brow I See That Written Which Is Doom, Unless The Writing Be Erased.

Blackened Skeleton Arms Of Wood By The Wayside Pointed Upward To The Convent, As If The Ghosts Of Former Travellers, Overwhelmed By The Snow, Haunted The Scene Of Their Distress. Icicle-hung Caves And Cellars Built For Refuges From Sudden Storms, Were Like So Many Whispers Of The Perils Of The Place; Never-resting Wreaths And Mazes Of Mist Wandered About, Hunted By A Moaning Wind; And Snow, The Besetting Danger Of The Mountain, Against Which All Its Defences Were Taken, Drifted Sharply Down.

The Leprosy Of Unreality Disfigured Every Human Creature In Attendance.

All Partings Foreshadow The Great Final One.

And Yet I Love Him. I Love Him So Much And So Dearly, That When I Sometimes Think My Life May Be But A Weary One, I Am Proud Of It And Glad Of It. I Am Proud And Glad To Suffer Something For Him, Even Though It Is Of No Service To Him, And He Will Never Know Of It Or Care For It.