Shakespeare Is The Happy Hunting Ground Of

Lord, Heap Miseries Upon Us Yet Entwine Our Arts With Laughters Low.

The Heaventree Of Stars Hung With Humid Nightblue Fruit.

Why Is It That Words Like These Seem Dull And Cold? Is It Because There Is No Word Tender Enough To Be Your Name?

The Voices Blend And Fuse In Clouded Silence: Silence That Is Infinite Of Space: And Swiftly, Silently The Sound Is Wafted Over Regions Of Cycles Of Cycles Of Generations That Have Lived.

There Is An Atmosphere Of Spiritual Effort Here. No Other City Is Quite Like It. I Wake Early, Often At 5 O'clock, And Start Writing At Once.