Our Pleasures And Our Discontents, Are Rounds

The Young May Die, But The Old Must!

There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

Be Still, Sad Heart! And Cease Repining; Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining; Thy Fate Is The Common Fate Of All, Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

Perhaps There Lives Some Dreamy Boy, Untaught In Schools, Some Graduate Of The Field Or Street, Who Shall Become A Master Of Art, An Admiral Sailing The High Seas Of Thought Fearless And First, And Steering With His Fleet For Lands Not Yet Laid Down In Any Chart.

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