And Now I'm Old And Going--i'm Sure

Do Noble Things, Not Dream Them All Day Long: And So Make Life, Death, And The Vast Forever One Grand, Sweet Song.

Did It Ever Strike You That Goodness Is Not Merely A Beautiful Thing, But By Far The Most Beautiful Thing In The Whole World? So That Nothing Is To Be Compared For Value With Goodness; That Riches, Honor, Power, Pleasure, Learning, The Whole World And All In It, Are Not Worth Having In Comparison With Being Good; And The Utterly Best Thing For A Person Is To Be Good, Even Though They Were Never To Be Rewarded For It.

Three Fishers Went Sailing Away To The West,/ Away To The West As The Sun Went Down.

Are Gods More Ruthless Than Mortals? Have They No Mercy For Youth? No Love For The Souls Who Have Loved Them?

Now, To Tell My Story--if Not As It Ought To Be Told, At Least As I Can Tell It,--i Must Go Back Sixteen Years, To The Days When Whitbury Boasted Of Forty Coaches Per Diem, Instead Of One Railway, And Set Forth How In Its Southern Suburb, There Stood Two Pleasant House Side By Side, With Their Gardens Sloping Down To The Whit, And Parted From Each Other Only By The High Brick Fruit-wall, Through Which There Used To Be A Door Of Communication; For The Two Occupiers Were Fast Friends.