Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.

All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.

Commemoration of Richard Meux Benson, Founder of the Society of St John the Evangelist, 1915 Our critical day is not the very day of our death, but the whole course of our life; I thank him, that prays for me when my bell tolls; but I thank him much more, that catechizes me, or preaches to me, or instructs me how to live.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.

Who are a little wise the best fools be.