Poetry
Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour,
Rains from the sky a meteoric shower
Of facts . . . they lie unquestioned, uncombined.
Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill
Is daily spun; but there exists no loom
To weave it into fabric.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, from
“Upon This Age That Never Speaks Its Mind,” 1939
And some photos
Please credit me if you borrow them.
Edit: Charles Mutter