The Best Thing One Can Do When

The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

At First Laying Down, As A Fact Fundamental, That Nothing With God Can Be Accidental.

To Be Seventy Years Old Is Like Climbing The Alps. You Reach A Snow-crowned Summit, And See Behind You The Deep Valley Stretching Miles And Miles Away, And Before You Other Summits Higher And Whiter, Which You May Have Strength To Climb, Or May Not. Then You Sit Down And Meditate And Wonder Which It Will Be.

The Greatest Grace Of A Gift, Perhaps, Is That It Anticipates And Admits Of No Return.

How In The Turmoil Of Life Can Love Stand, Where There Is Not One Heart, And One Mouth And One Hand.