It Is True, That It Is Not

Ships That Pass In The Night, And Speak Each Other In Passing, Only A Signal Shown, And A Distant Voice In The Darkness; So On The Ocean Of Life, We Pass And Speak One Another, Only A Look And A Voice, Then Darkness Again And A Silence.

The Rays Of Happiness, Like Those Of Light, Are Colorless When Unbroken.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.

Ripe In Wisdom Was He, But Patient, And Simple, And Childlike.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.