Never Be A Cynic, Even

Authors And Uncaptured Criminals Are The Only People Free From Routine.

Oh, I Have Walked In Kansas Through Many A Harvest Field, And Piled The Sheaves Of Glory There And Down The Wild Rows Reeled: Each Sheaf A Little Yellow Sun, A Heap Of Hot-rayed Gold; Each Binder Like Creation's Hand To Mold Suns, As Of Old.

God Lead Us Past The Setting Of The Sun To Wizard Islands, Of August Surprise; God Make Our Blunders Wise.

I Think On Death As The Apparent End Of The Illusions That Encompass Us. They All Have A Sudden And Unexpected End, That Challenges Any Faith We Have Pinned To Their Worth.

Factory Windows Are Always Brokenother Windows Are Let Alone.no One Throws Through The Chapel-windowthe Bitter, Snarling, Derisive Stone.