I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day

Youth Wrenches The Sceptre From Old Age, And Sets The Crown On Its Own Head Before It Is Entitled To It.

The Thoughts Of Youth Are Long, Long Thoughts

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

There Is No Grief Like The Grief That Does Not Speak.

Thinking The Deed, And Not The Creed, Would Help Us In Our Utmost Need.