Oh, How Short Are The Days! How

We Are All Architects Of Faith, Ever Living In These Walls Of Time.

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

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

This Is The Forest Primeval. The Murmuring Pines And The Hemlocks, Bearded With Moss, And In Garments Green, Indistinct In The Twilight, Stand Like Druids Of Eld, With Voices Sad And Prophetic, Stand Like Harpers Hoar, With Beards That Rest On Their Bosoms. Loud From Its Rocky Caverns, The Deep-voiced Neighboring Ocean Speaks, And In Accents Disconsolate Answers The Wail Of The Forest.

No Man Is So Poor As To Have Nothing Worth Giving.