What Else Remains For Me? Youth, Hope

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

There's Not A Ship That Sails The Ocean, But Every Climate, Every Soil, Must Bring Its Tribute, Great Or Small, And Help To Build The Wooden Wall!

Nothing Is Or Can Be Accidental With God.

I Have A Passion For Ballad. . . . They Are The Gypsy Children Of Song, Born Under Green Hedgerows In The Leafy Lanes And Bypaths Of Literature,--in The Genial Summertime.

Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just.