And Each Man Stands With His Face

Girls Blush, Sometimes, Because They Are Alive, Half Wishing They Were Dead To Save The Shame. The Sudden Blush Devours Them, Neck And Brow; They Have Drawn Too Near The Fire Of Life, Like Gnats, And Flare Up Bodily, Wings And All. What Then? Who's Sorry For A Gnat Or Girl?

As The Moths Around A Taper, As The Bees Around A Rose, As The Gnats Around A Vapour, So The Spirits Group And Close Round About A Holy Childhood, As If Drinking Its Repose.

Souls Are Gregarious In A Sense, But No Soul Touches Another, As A General Rule.

Life Treads On Life, And Heart On Heart; We Press Too Close In Church And Mart To Keep A Dream Or Grave Apart.

Silence Is The Best Response To A Fool.