For 'tis Not In Mere Death That

Yet Half The Beast Is The Great God Pan, To Laugh, As He Sits By The River, Making A Poet Out Of A Man. The True Gods Sigh For The Cost And The Pain-- For The Reed That Grows Never More Again As A Reed With The Reeds Of The River.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End.

There Shakespeare, On Whose Forehead Climb The Crowns O' The World; Oh, Eyes Sublime With Tears And Laughter For All Time!

Every Wish Is Like A Prayer--with God.

Let Us Be Content To Work To Do The Things We Can, And Not Presume To Fret Because It's Little.