How In The Turmoil Of Life Can

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

The Sea Hath Its Pearls The Heaven Hath Its Stars But My Heart, My Heart Has Its Love.

A Sermon Is No Sermon In Which I Cannot Hear The Heartbeat.

Never Idle A Moment, But Thrifty And Thoughtful Of Others.

Well I Know The Secret Places, And The Nests In Hedge And Tree; At What Doors Are Friendly Faces, In What Hearts Are Thoughts Of Me.