Ah! The Clock Is Always Slow; It

And Each Forgets, As He Strips And Runs With A Brilliant, Fitful Pace, It's The Steady, Quiet, Plodding Ones Who Win In The Lifelong Race. And Each Forgets That His Youth Has Fled, Forgets That His Prime Is Past, Till He Stands One Day, With A Hope That's Dead, In The Glare Of The Truth At Last.

Ah! The Clock Is Always Slow; It Is Later Than You Think.

Write Verse, Not Poetry. The Public Wants Verse. If You Have A Talent For Poetry, Then Don't By Any Means Mother It, But Try Your Hand At Verse.

Carry On! Carry On! Fight The Good Fight And True; Believe In You Mission, Greet Life With A Cheer.

I Like To Think That When I Fall, A Rain-drop In Death's Shoreless Sea, This Shelf Of Books Along The Wall, Beside My Bed, Will Mourn For Me.