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That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
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What would the world be, once bereft of wet and wildness? Let them be left. O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
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all Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
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Up above, what wind walks! What lovely behavior of silk-sack clouds has wilder, wilful, wavier, meal-drift molded over and melted across skies!
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I think that the trivialness of life is, and personally to each one, ought to be seen to be, done away with by the Incarnation.
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