It Is Always The Season For The

Old Men Are Children Once Again A Dream That Sways And Wavers Into The Hard Light Of Day.

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

Justice, Voiceless, Unseen, Seeth Thee When Thou Sleepest And When Thou Goest Forth And When Thou Liest Down. Continually Doth She Attend Thee, Now Aslant Thy Course, Now At A Later Time. These Lines Are From A Section Of Doubtful Or Spurious Fragments.

The Tongue Of Slander Is Too Prompt With Wanton Malice To Wound The Stranger.

Whenever A Man Makes Haste, God Too Hastens With Him.