Pleasure Is Labour Too, And Tires As

Philologists, Who Chase A Painting Syllable Through Time And Space Start It At Home, And Hunt It In The Dark, To Gaul, To Greece, And Into Noah's Ark.

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Ye Therefore Who Love Mercy, Teach Your Sons To Love It, Too.

How Shall I Speak Thee, Or Thy Power Address Thou God Of Our Idolatry, The Press. . . . . Like Eden's Dead Probationary Tree, Knowledge Of Good And Evil Is From Thee.

Knowledge Is Proud That It Knows So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That It Knows No More.