Life Was Never Anything But A Perpetual

We Hand Folks Over To God's Mercy, And Show None Ourselves.

A Patronizing Disposition Always Has Its Meaner Side.

Our Dead Are Never Dead To Us Until We Have Forgotten Them: They Can Be Injured By Us, They Can Be Wounded; They Know All Our Penitence, All Our Aching Sense That Their Place Is Empty, All The Kisses We Bestow On The Smallest Relic Of Their Presence.

Love Has A Way Of Cheating Itself Consciously, Like A Child Who Plays At Solitary Hide-and-seek; It Is Pleased With Assurances That It All The While Disbelieves.

The Reward Of One Duty Is The Power To Fulfill Another.