A Late Lark Twitters From The Quiet

Life - Life - Let There Be Life! Better A Thousand Times The Roaring Hours When Wave And Wind, Like The Arch-murderer In Flight From The Avenger At His Heel, Storm Through The Desolate Fastnesses And Wild Waste Places Of The World!

Shakespeare Often Writes So Ill That You Hesitate To Believe He Could Ever Write Supremely Well; Or, If This Way Of Putting It Seem Indecorous And Abominable, He Very Often Writes So Well That You Are Loth To Believe He Could Ever Have Written Thus Extremely Ill.

Into The Winter's Gray Delight, Into The Summer's Golden Dream, Holy And High And Impartial, Death, The Mother Of Life, Mingles All Men For Ever.

Madam Life's A Piece In Bloom Death Goes Dogging Everywhere: She's The Tenant Of The Room, He's The Ruffian On The Stair.

In The Fell Clutch Of Circumstance, I Have Not Winced Nor Cried Aloud: Under The Bludgeoning Of Chance My Head Is Bloody, But Unbowed.