Hail To Thee, Blithe Spirit!

I Could Lie Down Like A Tired Child, And Weep Away The Life Of Care Which I Have Borne, And Yet Must Bear.

Thy Words Are Like A Cloud Of Winged Snakes.

The Rich Have Become Richer, And The Poor Have Become Poorer; And The Vessel Of The State Is Driven Between The Scylla And Charybdis Of Anarchy And Despotism.

But Hope Will Make Thee Young, For Hope And Youth Are Children Of One Mother, Even Love.

Words Are But Holy As The Deeds They Cover.