Conception, my boy, fundamental brainwork, is what makes the difference in all art.
The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful, and has nobody to thank.
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell
Sudden Light I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before,— How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turn'd so, Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore. Has this been thus before? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more?
I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.
