The Worst Of All Listeners Is The

Home Is Like The Ship At Sea, Sailing On Eternally; Oft The Anchor Forth We Cast, But Can Never Make It Fast.

We Must Scrunch Or Be Scrunched.

There Is A Wisdom Of The Head, And A Wisdom Of The Heart.

... When The Locked Door Opens, And There Comes In A Young Woman, Deadly Pale, And With Long Fair Hair, Who Glides To The Fire, And Sits Down In The Chair We Have Left There, Wringing Her Hands.

Such Is Hope, Heaven's Own Gift To Struggling Mortals, Pervading, Like Some Subtle Essence From The Skies, All Things Both Good And Bad.