My children, we have no place in this dim, colorless world.

While the Arts lived there was Spring on the earth.

Now they are condemned to death and it is Winter.

The leaves fall from all the trees, and we piping birds need groves to sing in.

How often already has Death laid his hand on our shoulder, every breath we draw is a boon of mercy--the extra length given in by the weaver, the hour of grace granted by the hangman to his victim! Our lives are no longer our own, a borrowed purse with damaged copper coins.