have seen enough shining of the didactic Sun.

So gazing up on hot summer nights at the London stars, I cool my
thoughts with a vision of the giddy, infinite, meaningless waste
of Creation, the blazing Suns, the Planets and frozen Moons, all
crashing blindly forever across the void of space.




_The Organ of Life_


Almost always In London--in the congregated uproar of streets,
or in the noise that drifts through wails and windows--you can
hear the hackneyed melancholy of street music; a music which
sounds like the actual voice of the human Heart, singing the
lost joys, the regrets, the loveless lives of the people who
blacken the pavements, or jolt along on the busses.

"Speak to me kindly," the hand-organ implores; "I'm all alone!"
it screams amid the throng; "thy Vows are all broken," it
laments in dingy courtyards, "And light is thy Fame." And of hot
summer afternoons, the Cry for Courage to Remember, or Calmness
to Forget, floats in with the smell of paint and asphalt--faint
and sad--through open office windows.