At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest_ Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest_ Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.
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