The Great Man Is The Man Who

Stirling, Like A Huge Brooch, Clasps Highlands And Lowlands Together.

And In Any Case, To The Old Man, When The World Becomes Trite, The Triteness Arises Not So Much From A Cessation As From A Transference Of Interest. What Is Taken From This World Is Given To The Next. The Glory Is In The East In The Morning, It Is In The West In The Afternoon, And When It Is Dark The Splendour Is Irradiating The Realm Of The Under-world. He Would Only Follow.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem Of May.

A Brave Soul Is A Thing Which All Things Serve.