Art Is Indeed Not The Bread But

The Words That A Father Speaks To His Children In The Privacy Of Home Are Not Heard By The World, But, As In Whispering Galleries, They Are Clearly Heard At The End, And By Posterity.

Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The Evening Dew, And Does Not Patter Down Like A Hailstorm.

Memory, Wit, Fancy, Acuteness, Cannot Grow Young Again In Old Age, But The Heart Can.

There Is A Joy In Sorrow Which None But A Mourner Can Know.

The Romance Of Life Begins And Ends With Two Blank Pages. Age And Extreme Old Age.