Change Begets Change.

On The Eve Of Long Voyages Or An Absence Of Many Years, Friends Who Are Tenderly Attached Will Seperate With The Usual Look, The Usual Pressure Of The Hand, Planning One Final Interview For The Morrow, While Each Well Knows That It Is But A Poor Feint To Save The Pain Of Uttering That One Word, And The Meeting Will Never Be. Should Possibilities Be Worse To Bear Than Certainties?

It Was A Good Thing To Have A Couple Of Thousand People All Rigid And Frozen Together, In The Palm Of One's Hand.

'mind And Matter,' Said The Lady In The Wig, 'glide Swift Into The Vortex If Immensity. Howls The Sublime, And Softly Sleeps The Calm Ideal, In The Whispering Chambers Of Imagination.'

Christmas Is A Poor Excuse Every 25th Of December To Pick A Man's Pockets.

The Great Grindstone, Earth, Had Turned When Mr. Lorry Looked Out Again, And The Sun Was Red On The Courtyard. But, The Lesser Grindstone Stood Alone There In The Calm Morning Air, With Red Upon It That The Sun Had Never Give, And Would Never Take Away.