Well, none of them see me, thank heaven,
As they pass me here on the hill—
So long as they live they’re shriven,
And when they come here—they are still.
Thinking
By Anatole France
’Tis a great infirmity to think. God preserve you from it, my son, as He has preserved His greatest saints, and the souls whom He loves with especial tenderness and destines to eternal felicity.
The Tail of the World
By John Amid