We Wear The Mask That Grins And

Washington Is The City Where The Big Men Of Little Towns Come To Be Disillusioned

Oh, How With More Than Dreams The Soul Is Torn, Ere Sleep Comes Down To Soothe The Weary Eyes.

This, This Indeed Is To Be Accursed, For If We Mortals Love, Or If We Sing, We Count Our Joys Not By What We Have, But By What Kept Us From That Perfect Thing.

Hope Is Tenacious. It Goes On Living And Working When Science Has Dealt It What Should Be Its Deathblow.

A Song Fluttered Down In The Form Of A Dove, And It Bore Me A Message, The One Word-love!