It Is Finished, Is Never Said Of

Affection Is Like Bread, Unnoticed Till We Starve, And Then We Dream Of It, And Sing Of It, And Paint It, When Every Urchin In The Street Has More Than He Can Eat.

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Old Age Comes On Suddenly, And Not Gradually As Is Thought.

The Power To Console Is Not Within Corporeal Reach - Though Its Attempt Is Precious.

Tis Not That Dieing Hurts Us So- Tis Living- Hurts Us More.