Then Stars Arise, And The Night Is

I Shot An Arrow Into The Air, It Fell To Earth, I Knew Not Where.

I Am Weary Of Your Quarrels, Weary Of Your Wars And Bloodshed, Weary Of Your Prayers For Vengeance, Of Your Wranglings And Dissensions

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

With Useless Endeavour Forever, Forever, Is Sisyphus Rolling His Stone Up The Mountain!

A Life That Is Worth Writing At All Is Worth Writing Minutely.