Love Is In All Things A Most

Fog Everywhere. Fog Up The River Where It Flows Among Green Airs And Meadows; Fog Down The River, Where It Rolls Defiled Among The Tiers Of Shipping, And The Waterside Pollutions Of A Great (and Dirty) City.... Chance People On The Bridges Peeping Over The Parapets Into A Nether Sky Of Fog, With Fog All Round Them, As If They Were Up In A Balloon And Hanging In The Misty Clouds.

Houses Were Knocked Down; Streets Broken Through And Stopped; Deep Pits And Trenches Dug In The Ground; Enormous Heaps Of Earth And Clay Thrown Up; Buildings That Were Undermined And Shaking, Propped By Great Beams Of Wood. In Short, The Yet Unfinished And Unopened Railroad Was In Progress.

They Are So Filthy And Bestial That No Honest Man Would Admit One Into His House For A Water-closet Doormat.

They Are Man's And They Cling To Me, Appealing From Their Fathers. This Boy Is Ignorance And This Girl Is Want. Beware Them Both, And All Of Their Degree, But Most Of All Beware This Boy For On His Brow I See That Written Which Is Doom, Unless The Writing Be Erased.

What Are The Odds So Long As The Fire Of The Soul Is Kindled At The Taper Of Conviviality, And The Wing Of Friendship Never Molts A Feather?