Beware Of The Man Who

The Tongue May Be An Unruly Member-- But Silence Poisons The Soul.

This Is A Man With An Old Face, Always Old... There Was Pathos, In His Face, And In His Eyes. The Early Weariness; And Sometimes Tears In His Eyes, Which He Let Slip Unconsciously On His Cheek, Or Brushed Away With An Unconcerned Hand. There Were Tears For Human Suffering, Or For A Glance Into The Vast Futility Of Life, Which He Had Seen From The First, Being Old When He Was Born.

And I Never Started To Plow In My Life That Some One Did Not Stop In The Road And Take Me Away To A Dance Or Picnic. I Ended Up With Forty Acres; I Ended Up With A Broken Fiddle— And A Broken Laugh, And A Thousand Memories, And Not A Single Regret.

To Put Meaning In One's Life May End In Madness, But Life Without Meaning Is The Torture Of Restlessness And Vague Desire-it Is A Boat Longing For The Sea And Yet Afraid.

. . . The Weal Of The Race, And The Cause Of Humanity, Here And Now, Are Enough To Give Life Meaning And Death As Well.