I Hate People But I Love Gatherings.

The Young Are So Old, They Are Born With Their Fingers Crossed.

Should At That Moment The Full Moon Step Forth Upon The Hill, And Memories Hard To Bear At Noon, By Moonlight Harder Still, Form In The Shadows Of The Trees, - Things That You Could Not Spare And Live, Or So You Thought, Yet These All Gone, And You Still There, A Man No Longer What He Was, Not Yet The Thing He Planned.

I Would I Were Alive Again To Kiss The Fingers Of The Rain, To Drink Into My Eyes The Shine Of Every Slanting Silver Line, To Catch The Freshened, Fragrant Breeze From Drenched And Dripping Apple-trees. For Soon The Shower Will Be Done, And Then The Broad Face Of The Sun Will Laugh Above The Rain-soaked Earth Until The World With Answering Mirth Shakes Joyously, And Each Round Drop Rolls Twinkling, From Its Grass-blade Top.

Martyred Many Times Must Be Who Would Keep His Country Free.

Strange How Few, After Alls Said And Done, The Things That Are Of Moment.