Follow Thou Thy Choice.

The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyone The Sculpted Flower.

God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale Tormentor,--misery.

To Him Who In The Love Of Nature Holds Communion With Her Visible Forms, She Speaks A Various Language.

The Moon Is At Her Full, And Riding High, Floods The Calm Fields With Light. The Airs That Hover In The Summer Sky Are All Asleep To-night.

Much Has Seen Said Of The Wisdom Of Old Age. Old Age Is Wise, I Grant, For Itself, But Not Wise For The Community. It Is Wise In Declining New Enterprises, For It Has Not The Power Nor The Time To Execute Them; Wise In Shrinking From Difficulty, For It Has Not The Strength To Overcome It; Wise In Avoiding Danger, For It Lacks The Faculty Of Ready And Swift Action, By Which Dangers Are Parried And Converted Into Advantages. But This Is Not Wisdom For Mankind At Large, By Whom New Enterprises Must Be Undertaken, Dangers Met, And Difficulties Surmounted.