Habit Is Heaven's Own Redress: It Takes

But Even Friendship Like Our Heroes' Exist No More; For We've Outgrown All Sentiments And Deem Men Zeroes-- Except Of Course Ourselves Alone. We All Take On Napoleon's Features, And Millions Of Our Fellow Creatures Are Nothing More To Us Than Tools... Since Feelings Are For Freaks And Fools. Eugene, Of Course, Had Keen Perceptions And On The Whole Despised Mankind, Yet Wasn't, Like So Many, Blind; And Since Each Rule Permits Exceptions, He Did Respect A Noble Few, And, Cold Himself, Gave Warmth Its Due.

There Yet Remains But One Concluding Tale, And Then This Chronicle Of Mine Is Ended - Fulfilled, The Duty God Ordained To Me, A Sinner. Not Without Purpose Did The Lord, Put Me To Witness Much For Many Years, And Educate Me In The Love Of Books. One Day Some Indefatigable Monk, Will Find My Conscientious, Unsigned Work; Like Me, He Will Light Up His Ikon-lamp, And, Shaking From The Scroll The Age-old Dust, He Will Transcribe These Tales In All Their Truth.

I Have Outlasted All Desire, My Dreams And I Have Grown Apart; My Grief Alone Is Left Entire, The Gleamings Of An Empty Heart. The Storms Of Ruthless Dispensation Have Struck My Flowery Garland Numb, I Live In Lonely Desolation And Wonder When My End Will Come. Thus On A Naked Tree-limb, Blasted By Tardy Winter's Whistling Chill, A Single Leaf Which Has Outlasted Its Season Will Be Trembling Still.

Cabbage Soup And Barley. They're Russia's National Food. Both Excellent In Their Way, But A Shade Monotonous.

A Deception That Elevates Us Is Dearer Than A Host Of Low Truths.