Oh, Time Betrays Us. Time Is The

If You Are Rich, You Have Lovely Cars, And Jars Full Of Flowers, And Books In Rows, And A Wireless, And The Best Sort Of Gramophone And Meringues For Supper.

I Find You In All Small And Lovely Things; In The Little Fishes Like Flames In The Green Water, In The Furred And Stupid Softness Of Bumble-bees Fat As Laughter, In All The Chiming Radiance Of Warmth And Light And Scent In The Summer Garden.

Public Work Brings A Vicarious But Assured Sense Of Immortality. We May Be Poor, Weak, Timid, In Debt To Our Landlady, Bullied By Our Nieces, Stiff In The Joints, Shortsighted And Distressed; We Shall Perish, But The Cause Endures; The Cause Is Great.

We Are So Little, So Ignorant, So Feeble An Infant Race Crawling On A Planet Between Immensities We Haven't Even Begun To Understand, That Really We Have No Grounds For Either Congratulation Or Despair.

Surely, If Life Is Good, It Is Good Throughout Its Substance; We Cannot Separate Men's Activities From Women's And Say, These Are Worthy Of Praise And These Unworthy.