How Very Hard It Is To Be

Grow Old With Me. The Best Is Yet To Be. The Last Of Life For Which The First Was Made.

I See My Way As Birds Their Trackless Way. I Shall Arrive,- What Time, What Circuit First, I Ask Not; But Unless God Send His Hail Or Blinding Fire-balls, Sleet Or Stifling Snow, In Some Time, His Good Time, I Shall Arrive: He Guides Me And The Bird. In His Good Time.

Lose Who May-i Still Can Say, Those Who Win Heaven, Blest Are They!

Never The Time And The Place And The Loved One All Together.

Autumn Wins You Best By This Its Mute Appeal To Sympathy For Its Decay.