Why Then We Should Drop

She Dotes On Poetry, Sir. She Adores It; I May Say That Her Whole Soul And Mind Are Wound Up, And Entwined With It. She Has Produced Some Delightful Pieces, Herself, Sir. You May Have Met With Her 'ode To An Expiring Frog,' Sir.

The Weathercocks On Spires And Housetops Were Mysterious With Hints Of Stormy Wind, And Pointed, Like So Many Ghostly Fingers, Out To Dangerous Seas, Where Fragments Of Great Wrecks Were Drifting, Perhaps, And Helpless Men Were Rocked Upon Them Into A Sleep As Deep As The Unfathomable Waters.

The Shadows Of Our Own Desires Stand Between Us And Our Better Angels, And Thus Their Brightness Is Eclipsed.

I Have Been Bent And Broken, But - I Hope - Into A Better Shape.

The Aphorism "whatever Is, Is Right," Would Be As Final As It Is Lazy, Did It Not Include The Troublesome Consequence That Nothing That Ever Was, Was Wrong.