Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow.

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die

Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest; A Mind Quite Vacant Is A Mind Distressed.

All We Behold Is Miracle.

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.