  TOLSTOI. He calls, from the hot road to us, who stray In shady pleasant woods abroad,— Yes, Tolstoi, your path leads to God, But through the forest there may be a way. IBSEN. A cannon shot, not fired to kill, But to dislodge and make to rise The decomposing corpse that lies Beneath life’s surface, smooth and still. Claude F. Bragdon. SUCCESS. Without one thought in his wide, empty brain (For Reason never sowed a seed to grow), He sits and writes page after page—no strain; Why? Chaff is cheap and sometimes looks like grain. EUMENIDES. All kindred gods have crumbled into dust Though latest born of that once teeming womb. Ye yet abide who shall not taste a tomb— Of passion, gold, and fame the lashing lust. Philip Becker Goetz. |
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