The Wind Blows Out, The Bubble Dies;

To Us Who Remain Behind Is Left This Day Of Memories. Every Year--in The Full Tide Of Spring, At The Height Of The Symphony Of Flowers And Love And Life--there Comes A Pause, And Through The Silence We Hear The Lonely Pipe Of Death.

The Wind Blows Out, The Bubble Dies; The Spring Entomb'd In Autumn Lies; The Dew Dries Up; The Star Is Shot; The Flight Is Past, And Man Forgot.

There Is No Friend Like The Old Friend, Who Has Shared Our Morning Days, No Greeting Like His Welcome, No Homage Like His Praise: Fame Is The Scentless Sunflower, With Gaudy Crown Of Gold; But Friendship Is The Breathing Rose, With Sweets In Every Fold.

To An Imagination Of Any Scope The Most Far Reaching Form Of Power Is Not Money, It Is The Command Of Ideas

From Forty To Fifty A Man Must Move Upward, Or The Natural Falling Off In The Vigor Of Life Will Carry Him Rapidly Downward.