This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age, so I am writing prose.

We reduce the deity to vulgar fractions. We place our own little ambitions and label them ?divine messages?. With our short sight we affect to take a comprehensive view of eternity.

All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.

Washington is the city where the big men of little towns come to be disillusioned

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core.

Poor conceited humanity! Interpreters of God indeed.