The Darkness Of Death Is Like The

Poverty Is The Only Load Which Is The Heavier The More Loved Ones There Are To Assist In Bearing It.

Sorrows Are Like Thunderclouds, In The Distance They Look Black, Over Our Heads Scarcely Gray.

Ah! The Seasons Of Love Roll Not Backward But Onward, Downward Forever.

The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To Late Perfection, Even In The Kindliest Soul, Is Tenderness Toward The Hard, Forbearance Toward The Unforbearing, Warmth Of Heart Toward The Cold, Philanthropy Toward The Misanthropic.

Like A Morning Dream, Life Becomes More And More Bright The Longer We Live, And The Reason Of Everything Appears More Clear. What Has Puzzled Us Before Seems Less Mysterious, And The Crooked Paths Look Straighter As We Approach The End.