. . . The Weal Of The

. . . The Weal Of The Race, And The Cause Of Humanity, Here And Now, Are Enough To Give Life Meaning And Death As Well.

He Stripped Off The Armor Of Institutional Friendships To Dedictate His Soul To The Terrible Deities Of Truth And Beauty.

The Much-sought Prize Of Eternal Youth Is Just Arrested Growth.

The Snows And The Roses Of Yesterday Are Vanished; And What Is Love But A Rose That Fades?

And I Never Started To Plow In My Life That Some One Did Not Stop In The Road And Take Me Away To A Dance Or Picnic. I Ended Up With Forty Acres; I Ended Up With A Broken Fiddle— And A Broken Laugh, And A Thousand Memories, And Not A Single Regret.