My Own Thoughts Are My

No Literature Is Complete Until The Language It Was Written In Is Dead.

It Is The Harvest Moon! On Gilded Vanes And Roofs Of Villages, On Woodland Crests And Their Aerial Neighborhoods Of Nests Deserted, On The Curtained Window-panes Of Rooms Where Children Sleep, On Country Lanes And Harvest-fields, Its Mystic Splendor Rests.

The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf.

Youth Comes But Once A Life Time. Perhaps, But It Remains Strong In Many For Their Entire Lives.

Ships That Pass In The Night, And Speak Each Other In Passing, Only A Signal Shown, And A Distant Voice In The Darkness; So On The Ocean Of Life, We Pass And Speak One Another, Only A Look And A Voice, Then Darkness Again And A Silence.