Yet Through All, We Know

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

The Truly Great Rest In The Knowledge Of Their Own Deserts, Nor Seek The Conformation Of The World.

My Friend Is Not Perfect-no More Than I Am-and So We Suit Each Other Admirable.

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.