Fortune Befriends The Bold.

We Do Not Play On Graves— Because There Isn't Room— Besides—it Isn't Even—it Slants And People Come— And Put A Flower On It— And Hang Their Faces So— We're Fearing That Their Hearts Will Drop— And Crush Our Pretty Play— And So We Move As Far As Enemies—away— Just Looking Round To See How Far It Is—occasionally—

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.

Beauty Is Not Caused, It Is; Chase It And It Ceases, Chase It Not And It Abides.

Hope . . . Never Stops At All.

Faith Slips - And Laughs, And Rallies