Children Of Men! The Unseen

And See All Sights From Pole To Pole, And Glance, And Nod, And Hustle By; And Never Once Possess Our Soul Before We Die.

Coldly, Sadly Descends The Autumn Evening. The Field Strewn With Its Dank Yellow Drifts Of Wither'd Leaves, And The Elms, Fade Into Dimness Apace, Silent; Hardly A Shout From A Few Boys Late At Their Play!

Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

What Shelter To Grow Ripe Is Ours? What Leisure To Grow Wise?

Journalism Is Literature In A Hurry.