Children Use The Fist Until

What We Call Life Is A Condition Of The Soul. And The Soul Must Improve In Happiness And Wisdom, Except By Its Own Fault. These Tears In Our Eyes, These Faintings Of The Flesh, Will Not Hinder Such Improvement.

The Charm, One Might Say The Genius, Of Memory Is That It Is Choosy, Chancy And Temperamental.

"there Is No God," The Foolish Saith, But None, "there Is No Sorrow." And Nature Oft The Cry Of Faith In Bitter Need Will Borrow: Eyes Which The Preacher Could Not School, By Wayside Graves Are Raised; And Lips Say, "god Be Pitiful," Who Ne'er Said, "god Be Praised."

My Future Will Not Copy My Fair Past, I Wrote That Once. And, Thinking At My Side My Ministering Life-angel Justified The Word By His Appealing Look Upcast To The White Throne Of God.

Enough! We're Tired, My Heart And I. We Sit Beside The Headstone Thus, And Wish That Name Were Carved For Us. The Moss Reprints More Tenderly The Hard Types Of The Mason's Knife, As Heaven's Sweet Life Renews Earth's Life With Which We're Tired, My Heart And I .... In This Abundant Earth No Doubt Is Little Room For Things Worn Out: Disdain Them, Break Them, Throw Them By! And If Before The Days Grew Rough We Once Were Loved, Used, - Well Enough, I Think, We've Fared, My Heart And I.