Till The Master Of All Good Workmen

The Tumalt And Shouting Dies, The Captains And The Kings Depart. Still Stands Thine Ancient Sacrifice, An Humble And A Contrite Heat. Lord God Of Hosts, Be With Us Yet, Lest We Forget, Lest We Forget.

There Are Few Things Sweeter In This World Than The Guileless, Hotheaded, Intemperate, Open Admiration Of A Junior. Even A Woman In Her Blindest Devotion Does Not Fall Into The Gait Of The Man She Adores, Tilt Her Bonnet To The Angle At Which He Wears His Hat, Or Interlard Her Speech With His Pet Oaths.

God Could Not Be Everywhere, And Therefore He Made Mothers.

There Rise Her Timeless Capitals Of Empires Daily Born, Whose Plinths Are Laid At Midnight And Whose Streets Are Packed At Morn; And Here Come Tired Youths And Maids That Feign To Love Or Sin In Tones Like Rusty Razor Blades To Tunes Like Smitten Tin.

Beware Of Overconcern For Money, Or Position, Or Glory. Someday You Will Meet A Man Who Cares For None Of These Things. Then You Will Know How Poor You Are.