We Must Not Pluck Death From The

None But The Brave And Beautiful Can Love.

The Sun, Centre And Sire Of Light, The Keystone Of The World-built Arch Of Heaven.

Not A Single Path Of Thought I Tread, But That It Leads To God.

See The Gold Sunshine Patching, And Streaming And Streaking Across The Gray-green Oaks; And Catching, By Its Soft Brown Beard, The Moss.

We Live In Deeds, Not Years; In Thoughts, Not Figures On A Dial. We Should Count Time By Heart Throbs. He Most Lives Who Thinks Most, Feels The Noblest, Acts The Best.