It Is Difficult To Know At What

There Are Two Angels That Attend Unseen Each One Of Us, And In Great Books Record Our Good And Evil Deeds. He Who Writes Down The Good Ones, After Every Action Closes His Volume, And Ascends With It To God. The Other Keeps His Dreadful Day-book Open Till Sunset, That We May Repent; Which Doing, The Record Of The Action Fades Away, And Leaves A Line Of White Across The Page. Now If My Act Be Good, As I Believe It, It Cannot Be Recalled. It Is Already Sealed Up In Heaven, As A Good Deed Accomplished. The Rest Is Yours.

The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A Memory. And In It Are Kept The Most Precious Keepsakes.

Sweet April! Many A Thought Is Wedded Unto Thee, As Hearts Are Wed; Nor Shall They Fail, Till, To Its Autumn Brought, Life's Golden Fruit Is Shed.

The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night.

Thus At The Flaming Forge Of Life Our Fortunes Must Be Wrought; Thus On Its Sounding Anvil Shaped Each Burning Deed And Thought!