O' Who Will Walk With Me Along

The Best Rose-bush, After All, Is Not That Which Has The Fewest Thorns, But That Which Bears The Finest Roses.

Who Can Explain The Secret Pathos Of Nature's Loveliness? It Is A Touch Of Melancholy Inherited From Our Mother Eve. It Is An Unconscious Memory Of The Lost Paradise. It Is The Sense That Even If We Should Find Another Eden, We Would Not Be Fit To Enjoy It Perfectly Nor Stay In It Forever.

Time Is Too Slow For Those Who Wait, Too Swift For Those Who Fear, Too Long For Those Who Grieve, Too Short For Those Who Rejoice, But For Those Who Love, Time Is Eternity.

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.

It Is Better To Burn The Candle At Both Ends, And In The Middle, Too, Than To Put It Away In The Closet And Let The Mice Eat It.