The Soul Never Grows Old.

Under The Spreading Chestnut Tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands. . . . He Earns Whate'er He Can, And Looks The Whole World In The Face, For He Owes Not Any Man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward Through Life He Goes; Each Morning Sees Some Task Begin, Each Evening Sees It Close; Something Attempted, Something Done, Has Earned A Night's Repose.

Thus, Seamed With Many Scars Bursting These Prison Bars, Up To Its Native Stars My Soul Ascended! There From The Flowing Bowl Deep Drinks The Warrior's Soul, Skoal! To The Northland! Skoal! Thus The Tale Ended.

No Man Is So Poor As To Have Nothing Worth Giving.

The Picture That Approaches Sculpture Nearest Is The Best Picture.

As To The Pure Mind All Things Are Pure, So To The Poetic Mind All Things Are Poetical.