After A Man Passes 60 , His

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.

There Is A Remembrance Of The Dead To Which We Turn Even From The Charms Of The Living.

There Is An Enduring Tenderness In The Love Of A Mother To A Son That Trancends All Other Affections Of The Heart

After All, It Is The Divinity Within That Makes The Divinity Without.

The Idol Of Today Pushes The Hero Of Yesterday Out Of Our Recollection; And Will, In Turn, Be Supplanted By His Successor Of Tomorrow.