Children Are The Hands By Which We

Love Is The Medicine Of All Moral Evil. By It The World Is To Be Cured Of Sin.

There Is Not A Heart But Has Its Moments Of Longing, Yearning For Something Better; Nobler; Holier Than It Knows Now.

Whatever Is Almost True Is Quite False, And Among The Most Dangerous Of Errors, Because Being So Near Truth, It Is More Likely To Lead Astray.

Your Honors Here May Serve You For A Time, As It Were For An Hour, But They Will Be Of No Use To You Beyond This World. Nobody Will Have Heard A Word Of Your Honors In The Other Life. Your Glory, Your Shame, Your Ambitions, And All The Treasures For Which You Push Hard And Sacrifice Much Will Be Like Wreaths Of Smoke. For These Things, Which You Mostly Seek, And For Which You Spend Your Life Only Tarry With You While You Are On This Side Of The Flood.

Death Is The Dropping Of The Flower, That The Fruit May Swell.