A Variety Of Nothing Is

What Makes Old Age So Sad Is, Not That Our Joys, But That Our Hopes Then Cease.

Because The Heart Beats Under A Covering Of Hair, Of Fur, Feathers, Or Wings, It Is, For That Reason, To Be Of No Account?

Man Has Here Two And A Half Minutes-one To Smile, One To Sigh, And A Half To Love: For In The Midst Of This Minute He Dies.

Our Birthdays Are Feathers In The Broad Wing Of Time.

There Are Souls In This World Which Have The Gift Of Finding Joy Everywhere And Of Leaving It Behind Them When They Go.