Ripe In Wisdom Was He, But Patient,

Then Followed That Beautiful Season... Summer.... Filled Was The Air With A Dreamy And Magical Light; And The Landscape Lay As If New Created In All The Freshness Of Childhood.

Therefore Trust To Thy Heart, And To What The World Calls Illusions.

A Life That Is Worth Writing At All Is Worth Writing Minutely.

This Song Of Mine Is A Song Of The Vine To Be Sung By The Glowing Embers Of Wayside Inns, When The Rain Begins To Darken The Drear Novembers. And For The Richest And Best Is The Wind Of The West That Grows By The Beautiful River; Whose Sweet Perfume Fills All The Room With A Bension On The Giver. And When You Ask One Friend To Dine, Give Hime Your Best Wine! When You Ask Two, The Second Best Will Do.

Only A Look And A Voice; Then Darkness Again And Silence.