And Silence, Like A Poultice, Comes To

The Only Condition Of Peace In This World Is To Have No Ideas, Or, At Least Not To Express Them.

Knowledge-it Excites Prejudices To Call It Science-is Advancing As Irresistibly, As Majestically, As Remorselessly As The Ocean Moves In Upon The Shore.

Our Dead Brothers And Sisters Still Live For Us And Bid Us Think Of Life, Not Death-of Life To Which In Their Youth They Lent The Passion And Glory Of Spring. As I Listen, The Great Chorus Of Life And Joy Begins Again, And Amid The Awful Orchestra Of Seen And Unseen Powers And Destinies Of Good And Evil, Our Trumpets Sound Once More A Note Of Daring, Hope, And Will.

For Him In Vain The Envious Seasons Roll Who Bears Eternal Summer In His Soul.

Most Of The Things We Do, We Do For No Better Reason Than That Our Fathers Have Done Them Or Our Neighbors Do Them, And The Same Is True Of A Larger Part Than What We Suspect Of What We Think.