So We Die Before Our Own Eyes;

In The Life Of Each Of Us, I Said To Myself, There Is A Place Remote And Islanded, And Given To Endless Regret Or Secret Happiness; We Are Each The Uncompanioned Hermit And Recluse Of An Hour Or A Day; We Understand Our Fellows Of The Cell To Whatever Age Of History They May Belong.

To Let God Make Us, Instead Of Painfully Trying To Make Ourselves; To Follow The Path That His Love Shows Us, Instead Of Through Conceit Or Cowardice Or Mockery Choosing Another; To Trust Him For Our Strength And Fitness As The Flowers Do, Simply Giving Ourselves Back To Him In Grateful Service,—this Is To Keep The Laws That Give Us The Freedom Of The City In Which There Is No Longer Any Night Of Bewilderment Or Ignorance Or Uncertainty.

In These Days The Young Folks Is All Copy-cats, 'fraid To Death They Won't Be All Just Alike; As For The Old Folks, They Pray For The Advantage O' Bein' A Little Different.

There's Some Herb That's Good For Everybody, Except For Them That Thinks They're Sick When They Ain't.

I've Got 's Much Feelin' As The Next One, But When Folks Drives In Their Spiggits And Wants To Draw A Bucketful O' Compassion Every Day Right Straight Along, There Does Come Times When It Seems As If The Bar'l Was Getting Low.