In The Long Run Men Hit Only

From Dust Thou Art To Dust Returneth, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.

In Youth All Doors Open Outward; In Old Age All Open Inward.

At Daybreak, On The Bleak Sea-beach, A Fisherman Stood Aghast, To See The Form Of A Maiden Fair, Lashed Close To A Drifting Mast.

Mine Is The Month Of Roses; Yes, And Mine The Month Of Marriages! All Pleasant Sights And Scents, The Fragrance Of The Blossoming Vine, The Foliage Of The Valleys And The Heights. Mine Are The Longest Days, The Loveliest Nights; The Mower's Scythe Makes Music To My Ear; I Am The Mother Of All Dear Delights; I Am The Fairest Daughter Of The Year.

A Sermon Is No Sermon In Which I Cannot Hear The Heartbeat.