Oh, Give Us The Man Who Sings

A Pygmy Standing On The Outward Crust Of This Small Planet, His Far-reaching Spirit Stretches Outward To The Infinite, And There Alone Finds Rest.

Long Stormy Spring-time, Wet Contentious April, Winter Chilling The Lap Of Very May; But At Length The Season Of Summer Does Come.

Fame, We May Understand, Is No Sure Test Of Merit, But Only A Probability Of Such: It Is An Accident, Not A Property, Of A Man; Like Light, It Can Give Little Or Nothing, But At Most May Show What Is Given.

All History . . . Is An Inarticulate Bible.

Hardened Round Us, Encasing Wholly Every Notion We Form Is A Wrapping Of Traditions, Hearsay's, And Mere Words.