All Sense Of Hearing And Of Sight

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust, Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just

Time Has Laid His Hand Upon My Heart, Gently, Not Smiting It, But As A Harper Lays His Open Palm Upon His Harp, To Deaden Its Vibrations.

O Weary Hearts! O Slumbering Eyes! O Drooping Souls, Whose Destinies Are Fraught With Fear And Pain, Ye Shall Be Loved Again.