We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

Fair Greece! Sad Relic Of Departed Worth! Immortal, Though No More! Though Fallen, Great!

Why I Came Here, I Know Not; Where I Shall Go It Is Useless To Inquire - In The Midst Of Myriads Of The Living And The Dead Worlds, Stars, Systems, Infinity, Why Should I Be Anxious About An Atom?

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.

But 'midst The Crowd, The Hum, The Shock Of Men, To Hear, To See, To Feel, And To Possess, And Roam Along, The World's Tired Denizen, With None Who Bless Us, None Whom We Can Bless.

So Sweet The Blush Of Bashfulness, E'en Pity Scarce Can Wish It Less!