What Seems To Us But

And The Bright Faces Of My Young Companions Are Wrinkled Like My Own, Or Are No More.

Many Readers Judge Of The Power Of A Book By The Shock It Gives Their Feelings.

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

The Moon Is Hidden Behind A Cloud... On The Leaves Is A Sound Of Falling Rain... No Other Sounds Than These I Hear; The Hour Of Midnight Must Be Near... So Many Ghosts, And Forms Of Fright, Have Started From Their Graves To-night, They Have Driven Sleep From Mine Eyes Away: I Will Go Down To The Chapel And Pray.

Not In The Clamor Of The Crowded Street, Not In The Shouts And Plaudits Of The Throng, But In Ourselves, Are Triumph And Defeat.