The Angel and the Author, and others

where there was just one man and just one woman, and clothes grew on a fig tree

Blind Children playing in a World of Darkness.
May not we be but blind children, suggests the poet, living in a world of darkness—laughing, weeping, loving, dying—knowing nothing of the wonder round us?

The ghosts about us, with their god-like faces, it might be good to look at them.

But these poor, pale-faced spooks, these dull-witted, table-thumping spirits: it would be sad to think that of such was the kingdom of the Dead.

If only we had not lost our Tails!

it is the law of literature never to write except about what you really know

I remember a lady tidying up her house, clearing it of rubbish. She called it “Giving to the Fresh Air Fund.”

Is Charity lending to the Lord something we can so easily do without?