We Are All Swimmers In God's Mighty

What We Do Belongs To What We Are; And What We Are Is What Becomes Of Us.

As Long As Habit And Routine Dictate The Pattern Of Living, New Dimensions Of The Soul Will Not Emerge.

So In The Heart, When, Fading Slowly Down The Past, Fond Memories Depart, And Each That Leaves It Seems The Last; Long After All The Rest Are Flown, Returns A Solitary Tone,— The After-echo Of Departed Years,— And Touches All The Soul To Tears.

The Best Rose-bush, After All, Is Not That Which Has The Fewest Thorns, But That Which Bears The Finest Roses.

What Is Fortune, What Is Fame? Futile Gold And Phantom Name- Riches Buried In A Cave, Glory Written On A Grave.