How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.

God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song.

And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

You're something between a dream and a miracle.

Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.