“And so, about this tomb of mine . . . “

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  “VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!  Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?  Nephews—sons mine … ah God, I know not! Well—  She, men would have to be your mother once,  Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!  What’s done is done, and she is dead beside,  Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,  And as she died so must we die ourselves,  And thence ye may perceive the world’s a dream.  Life, how and what is it?  As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,  Hours and long hours in the dead night,  I ask “Do I live, am I dead?”  Peace, peace seems all.  Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace;  And so, about this tomb of mine.  I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:  —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;  Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner  South He graced his carrion with,  God curse the same!  Yet still my niche is not so cramped...

Timber-errrrr!

Anyone who has witnessed
the felling of a tall tree is left
with the definitive feeling of sadness.

As the saw rips through the heart of the giant,
it begins to sag down
on the side where the wound is gaping.

The tree begins to lean
away from the cutters,
but they continue their work--just a moment longer.

Then come the sounds:
the crack, crack, cracking of the wood fibers
in front of the saw teeth.

Another pass of the saw,
and the popping noise increases!
Those sounds! More rapid, then a continuous roar!

If you were standing nearby
you suddenly realize that everything above
is coming to earth.

The great mass starts to topple,
the popping and crackling and exploding sounds
burst from the base until with a fearful momentum,

the whole tree comes sprawling down.

Sometimes, we see a man come down like that.
He had stood out, so apparently strong before the entire world,
but the sappers were at his heart.

The supports were cut from under him
until he came crashing down
to the ground.

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