There Seems A Life In Hair, Though

It Flows Through Old Hushed Egypt And Its Sands, Like Some Grave Mighty Thought Threading A Dream, And Times And Things, As In That Vision, Seem Keeping Along It Their Eternal Stands.

The Very Greatest Genius, After All, Is Not The Greatest Thing In The World, Any More Than The Greatest City In The World Is The Country Or The Sky. It Is The Concentration Of Some Of Its Greatest Powers, But It Is Not The Greatest Diffusion Of Its Might. It Is Not The Habit Of Its Success, The Stability Of Its Sereneness.

Christmas Is The Glorious Time Of Great Too-much.

The Golden Line Is Drawn Between Winter And Summer. Behind All Is Blackness And Darkness And Dissolution. Before Is Hope, And Soft Airs, And The Flowers, And The Sweet Season Of Hay; And People Will Cross The Fields, Reading Or Walking With One Another; And Instead Of The Rain That Soaks Death Into The Heart Of Green Things, Will Be The Rain Which They Drink With Delight; And There Will Be Sleep On The Grass At Midday, And Early Rising In The Morning, And Long Moonlight Evenings.

Tears Hinder Sorrow From Becoming Despair.