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Shall we not weary in the windless days / Hereafter, for the murmur of the sea, / The cool salt air across some grassy lea? / Shall we not go bewildered through a maze / Of stately streets with glittering gems ablaze, / Forlorn amid the pearl and ivory, / Straining our eyes beyond the bourne to see / Phantoms from out life's dear forsaken ways? / Give us again the crazy clay-built nest, / Summer, and soft unseasonable spring, / Our flowers to pluck, our broken songs to sing, / Our fairy gold of evening in the West; / Still to the land we love our longings cling, / The sweet vain world of turmoil and unrest. / -- Graham R. Tomson.
Let me frankly confess that I love this world and the things of it, and so, I believe, do all in whom the "great, glad, aboriginal" and God-given love of life is whole and healthy, and not stunted by sickness of mind or body. For the bereaved and the sorrow-stricken I make every allowance and would have all tenderness, but I suspect either the honesty or the health (and by "health" I mean, of course, mental as well as physical soundness) of those who express themselves as being "desirous of departing," or who assert that love of this world is irreconcilable with the love of God.[1]