November 20

All shall know Me, from the least to the greatest.

DAWN not day!

Is it shame, so few should have climbed from the dens in the level below,

Men, with a heart and a soul, no slaves of a fourfooted will?

But if twenty million of summers are stored in the sunlight still,

We are far from the noon of man, there is time for the race to grow.

Red of the dawn!

Is it turning a fainter red? So be it, but when shall we lay

The Ghost of the Brute that is walking and haunting us yet, and be free?

ALFRED, LORD TENNY- SON, The Dawn In a hundred, a thousand winters? Ah, what will our children be, The men of a hundred thousand, a million summers away?

THE COMING OF THE KINGDOM