Ronald Edward Dawson

Did I tell you that we're burying my brother tomorrow?

The life of man seems to me like the flight of a sparrow through the hall wherein you are sitting at supper in the winter time, a warm fire lighted on the hearth while storms rage without.  The sparrow flies in at one door, tarries for a moment in the light and hear, and then flying forth through another door vanishes into the wintry darkness whence it had come.  So tarries man for a brief space, but of what went before or what is to follow, we know not.
                                                                                                           The Venerable Bede


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