White In The Moon The Long Road

The Troubles Of Our Proud And Angry Dust Are From Eternity, And Shall Not Fail. Bear Them We Can, And If We Can We Must. Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink Your Ale.

Nature, Not Content With Denying Him The Ability To Think, Has Endowed Him With The Ability To Write.

Now Hollow Fires Burn Out To Black, And Lights Are Guttering Low: Square Your Shoulders, Lift Your Pack And Leave Your Friends And Go.

There, Like The Wind Through Woods In Riot, Through Him The Gale Of Life Blew High; The Tree Of Man Was Never Quiet: Then 'twas The Roman, Now 'tis I.

His Folly Has Not Fellow Beneath The Blue Of Day That Gives To Man Or Woman His Heart And Soul Away.