Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness.
We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.
Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.
The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.
Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.
Personally, I do not believe that we shall have greater armaments in the future than we have had in the past. On the contrary, I believe there will be a gradual diminution in this respect.