He calls, from the hot road to us, who stray
In shady pleasant woods abroad,—
Yes, Tolstoi, your path leads to God,
But through the forest there may be a way.
IBSEN.
A cannon shot, not fired to kill,
But to dislodge and make to rise
The decomposing corpse that lies
Beneath life’s surface, smooth and still.
Claude F. Bragdon.