Hours Fly, Flowers Die: New Days, New

We May Be Able To Tell How Many Stars Are In The Milky Way; We May Be Able To Count The Petals Of Every Flower, And Number The Bones Of Every Bird; But Unless Faith Leads Us To A Deeper Understanding, A More Reverent Comprehension Of The Significance Of The Universe, God Can Be No More Pleased With Our Knowledge Than The Painter Is Pleased With The Fly Which Touches His Picture With Its Feelers, And Sips The Varnish From The Surface, And Dies Without Dreaming Of The Meaning, Thought, Feeling, Embodied In The Colors.

So In The Heart, When, Fading Slowly Down The Past, Fond Memories Depart, And Each That Leaves It Seems The Last; Long After All The Rest Are Flown, Returns A Solitary Tone,— The After-echo Of Departed Years,— And Touches All The Soul To Tears.

And You Will Remember That Love Is Not Getting, But Giving; Not A Wild Dream Of Pleasure, And A Madness Of Desire — Oh No, Love Is Not That — It Is Goodness, And Honour, And Peace, And Pure Living — Yes, Love Is That; And It Is The Best Thing In The World, And The Thing That Lives Longest.

Half Of The Secular Unrest And Dismal, Profane Sadness Of Modern Society Comes From The Vain Ideas That Every Man Is Bound To Be A Critic For Life.

Religion? Yes, I Know It Well; I've Heard Its Prayers And Creeds, And Seen Men Put Them All To Shame With Poor, Half-hearted Deeds. They Follow Christ, But Far Away; They Wander And They Doubt. I'll Serve Him In A Better Way, And Live His Precepts Out.