The Happy Should Not Insist Too Much

It Is Lucifer, The Son Of Mystery; And Since God Suffers Him To Be, He Too, Is God's Minister, And Labors For Some Good By Us Not Understood.

Let Us Then Be Up And Doing, With A Heart For Any Fate, Still Achieving, Still Pursuing, Learn To Labor And To Wait.

Sweet As The Tender Fragrance That Survives, When Martyred Flowers Breathe Out Their Little Lives, Sweet As A Song That Once Consoled Our Pain, But Never Will Be Sung To Us Again, Is They Remembrance. Now The Hour Of Rest Hath Come To Thee. Sleep, Darling: It Is Best.

Every Man Is In Some Sort A Failure To Himself. No One Ever Reaches The Heights To Which He Aspires.

It Is Difficult To Know At What Moment Love Begins; It Is Less Difficult To Know That It Has Begun.