Bury The Dead. Say Robinson Crusoe Was

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

Time Is, Time Was, But Time Shall Be No More.

The Heaventree Of Stars Hung With Humid Nightblue Fruit.

Beauty, The Splendour Of Truth, Is A Gracious Presence When The Imagination Contemplates Intensely The Truth Of Its Own Being Or The Visible World, And The Spirit Which Proceeds Out Of Truth And Beauty Is The Holy Spirit Of Joy. These Are Realities And These Alone Give And Sustain Life.