Wait And Wait. Most People's Lives Are

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.

It Has Long Been My Desire To Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Progress.

It May Be Life Is Only Worthwhile At Moments. Perhaps That Is All We Ought To Expect.

In Middle America Men Are Awakening. Like Awkward And Untrained Boys We Begin To Turn Toward Maturity And With Our Awakening We Hunger For Song. But In Our Towns And Fields There Are Few Memory Haunted Places. Here We Stand In Roaring City Streets, On Steaming Coal Heaps, In The Shadow Of Factories From Which Come Only The Grinding Roar Of Machines. We Do Not Sing But Mutter In The Darkness. Our Lips Are Cracked With Dust And With The Heat Of Furnaces. We But Mutter And Feel Our Way Toward The Promise Of Song.

Next To Occupation Is The Building Up Of Good Taste. That Is Difficult, Slow Work. Few Achieve It. It Means All The Difference In The World In The End.