Rest you here, enchanter, while the light fades, Vision narrows, and the far Sky-edge is gone with the sun. Be content with the small spark Of the coal, the smell Of food, and the breath Of frost beyond the shut door. Home is here, and familiar thing...
The mills of God work like lightning compared with the law.
There are few men more superstitious than soldiers. They are, after all, the men who live closest to death.
