The old faiths light their candles all about, but burly Truth comes by and puts them out.1
“To hear that your neighbor was worse off than yourself was not an altogether unpleasant experience.
Glad that I live am I;
That the sky is blue;
Glad for the country lanes,
And the fall of dew.
The sun pours out like wine.
For poetry, more than any other art, except music, has a compelling hold upon the spiritual side of life.
None of us ever escape the first few years of our lives. They make a mould into which we are cast, and though it may be broken, and we turned loose, some remnant of it, some intangible evil or lovely thing or both, will remain with us, like the odor to a flower, or the smoothness to a piece of ivory. It is part of the immortality of youth.
