Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature

Thoughts Must Come Naturally, Like Wild-flowers; They Cannot Be Forced In A Hot-bed, Even Although Aided By The Leaf-mould Of Your Past.

A Man Does Not Plant A Tree For Himself; He Plants It For Posterity.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.

And In Any Case, To The Old Man, When The World Becomes Trite, The Triteness Arises Not So Much From A Cessation As From A Transference Of Interest. What Is Taken From This World Is Given To The Next. The Glory Is In The East In The Morning, It Is In The West In The Afternoon, And When It Is Dark The Splendour Is Irradiating The Realm Of The Under-world. He Would Only Follow.

My Friend Is Not Perfect-no More Than I Am-and So We Suit Each Other Admirable.