a poem by Robert Frost
HOW countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.
A: The Declaration of
A: The Game of Roulette.
A: George Bush.
A: The Cold War.
A: Gerald Ford.
A: J. Paul Getty.
A: The Chinese.