It Is A Man Dying With His

Now Comes The Mystery.

To Array A Man's Will Against His Sickness Is The Supreme Art Of Medicine.

Let The Grateful Heart Sweep Through The Day That It May Recognize In Every Hour Some Sweet Blessing.

The Aster Has Not Wasted Spring And Summer Because It Has Not Blossomed. It Has Been All The Time Preparing For What Is To Follow, And In Autumn It Is The Glory Of The Field, And Only The Frost Lays It Low. So There Are Many People Who Must Live Forty Or Fifty Years, And Have The Crude Sap Of Their Natural Dispositions Changed And Sweetened Before The Blossoming Time Can Come; But Their Lives Have Not Been Wasted.

When Our Children Die, We Drop Them Into The Unknown, Shuddering With Fear. We Know That They Go Out From Us, And We Stand, And Pity, And Wonder.