Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers.
A long time ago an old man wished that his adversary would write a book. It needs no argument to prove that no lawyer ever said that; our enemies have written books, lots of them; too many of them such as they are; and the spoiling of paper goes merrily on. 'Much study is a weariness of the flesh," it is true, but winnowing chaff for an occasional grain of wheat is more weariness still. Are we for ever to roll at the ever increasing stone of Sisyphus, or shall we make some effort to relieve ourselves and our successors?