Although I Am An Old Man, Night

Go Ye, Who Rest So Placidly Upon The Sacred Bard Who Had Been Young, And When He Strung His Harp Was Old, And Had Never Seen The Righteous Forsaken, Or His Seed Begging Their Bread; Go, Teachers Of Content And Honest Pride, Into The Mine, The Mill, The Forge, The Squalid Depths Of Deepest Ignorance, And Uttermost Abyss Of Man's Neglect, And Say Can Any Hopeful Plant Spring Up In Air So Foul That It Extinguishes The Soul's Bright Torch As Fast As It Is Kindled!

Why Then We Should Drop Into Poetry.

Lord, Keep My Memory Green.

Rich Folks May Ride On Camels, But It Ain't So Easy For 'em To See Out Of A Needle's Eye.

A Day Wasted On Others Is Not Wasted On One's Self.