Come, Dear Children, Let Us

But Often, In The World’s Most Crowded Streets, But Often, In The Din Of Strife, There Rises An Unspeakable Desire After The Knowledge Of Our Buried Life; A Thirst To Spend Our Fire And Restless Force In Tracking Out Our True, Original Course; A Longing To Inquire Into The Mystery Of This Heart Which Beats So Wild, So Deep In Us—to Know Whence Our Lives Come And Where They Go.

And That Sweet City With Her Dreaming Spires, She Needs Not June For Beauty's Heightening.

The Kings Of Modern Thought Are Dumb.

In Our English Popular Religion The Common Conception Of A Future State Of Bliss Is That Of ... A Kind Of Perfected Middle-class Home, With Labour Ended, The Table Spread, Goodness All Around, The Lost Ones Restored, Hymnody Incessant.

I Do Not Believe Today Everything I Believed Yesterday I Wonder Will I Believe Tomorrow Everything I Believe Today.