Write To The Mind And Heart, And

He Hath No Power That Hath Not Power To Use.

Music Lives Within Thy Lips Like A Nightingale In Roses.

Blest Is He Whose Heart Is The Home Of The Great Dead And Their Great Thoughts.

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.

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.