Beautiful In Form And Feature, Lovely As

They Are Dead; But They Live In Each Patriot's Breast, And Their Names Are Engraven On Honor's Bright Crest.

So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest.

We Have Not Wings We Cannot Soar; But, We Have Feet To Scale And Climb, By Slow Degrees, By More And More, The Cloudy Summits Of Our Time.

Every Man Must Patiently Bide His Time. He Must Wait -- Not In Listless Idleness But In Constant, Steady, Cheerful Endeavors, Always Willing And Fulfilling And Accomplishing His Task, That When The Occasion Comes He May Be Equal To The Occasion.

To Be Seventy Years Old Is Like Climbing The Alps. You Reach A Snow-crowned Summit, And See Behind You The Deep Valley Stretching Miles And Miles Away, And Before You Other Summits Higher And Whiter, Which You May Have Strength To Climb, Or May Not. Then You Sit Down And Meditate And Wonder Which It Will Be.