Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point

Some Critics Are Like Chimney-sweepers; They Put Out The Fire Below, And Frighten The Swallows From Their Nests Above; They Scrape A Long Time In The Chimney, Cover Themselves With Soot, And Bring Nothing Away But A Bag Of Cinders, And Then Sing From The Top Of The House As If They Had Built It.

God Is Not Dead; Nor Doth He Sleep; ... The Wrong Shall Fail, The Right Prevail, With Peace On Earth, Good Will To Men.

'tis Always Morning Somewhere, And Abovethe Awakening Continents, From Shore To Shore,somewhere The Birds Are Singing Evermore.

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

The Shadows Of The Mind Are Like Those Of The Body. In The Morning Of Life They All Lie Behind Us; At Noon We Trample Them Under Foot; And In The Evening They Stretch Long, Broad, And Deepening Before Us.