Sweet May Hath Come To

Sleep Is Lovely, Death Is Better Still, Not To Have Been Born Is Of Course The Miracle.

And Once Again We Plighted Our Troth, And Titter'd, Caress'd, Kiss'd So Dearly.

At First I Was Almost About To Despair, I Thought I Never Could Bear It — But I Did I Bear It. The Question Remains: How?

You Talk Of Our Having An Idea; We Do Not Have An Idea. The Idea Has Us, And Martyrs Us, And Scourges Us, And Drives Us Into The Arena To Fight And Die For It, Whether We Want To Or Not.

What Christian Love Cannot Do Is Effected By A Common Hatred.