Love Is A Flame To

Off Cape Horn There Are But Two Kinds Of Weather, Neither One Of Them A Pleasant Kind.

Quinquireme Of Nineveh From Distant Ophir, Rowing Home To Haven In Sunny Palestine, With A Cargo Of Ivory, And Apes And Peacocks, Sandalwood, Cedarwood, And Sweet White Wine.

Each One Could Be A Jesus Mild, Each One Has Been A Little Child, A Little Child With Laughing Look, A Lovely White Unwritten Book; A Book That God Will Take, My Friend, As Each Goes Out At Journey's End.

Death Opens Unknown Doors. It Is Most Grand To Die.

Oh Some Are Fond Of Spanish Wine, And Some Are Fond Of French.