Christmas Is A Poor Excuse

I Wear The Chains I Forged In Life.

When I Have Come To You, At Last (as I Have Always Done), I Have Come To Peace And Happiness. I Come Home, Now, Like A Tired Traveller, And Find Such A Blessed Sense Of Rest!

My Dear Young Lady, Crime, Like Death, Is Not Confined To The Old And Withered Alone. The Youngest And Fairest Are Too Often Its Chosen Victims.

Go Ye, Who Rest So Placidly Upon The Sacred Bard Who Had Been Young, And When He Strung His Harp Was Old, And Had Never Seen The Righteous Forsaken, Or His Seed Begging Their Bread; Go, Teachers Of Content And Honest Pride, Into The Mine, The Mill, The Forge, The Squalid Depths Of Deepest Ignorance, And Uttermost Abyss Of Man's Neglect, And Say Can Any Hopeful Plant Spring Up In Air So Foul That It Extinguishes The Soul's Bright Torch As Fast As It Is Kindled!

If I Dropped A Tear Upon Your Hand, May It Wither It Up! If I Spoke A Gentle Word In Your Hearing, May It Deafen You! If I Touched You With My Lips, May The Touch Be Poison To You! A Curse Upon This Roof That Gave Me Shelter! Sorrow And Shame Upon Your Head! Ruin Upon All Belonging To You!