His Heart Kep' Goin' Pity-pat, But Hern

Attention Is The Stuff That Memory Is Made Of, And Memory Is Accumulated Genius.

Better One Bite At Forty, Of Truths Bitter Rind, Than The Hot Wine That Gushed From The Vintage Of Twenty.

Joy Comes, Grief Goes, We Know Not How.

Suddenly All The Sky Is Hid As With The Shutting Of A Lid, One By One Great Drops Are Falling Doubtful And Slow, Down The Pane They Are Crookedly Crawling, And The Wind Breathes Low; Slowly The Circles Widen On The River, Widen And Mingle, One And All; Here And There The Slenderer Flowers Shiver, Struck By An Icy Rain-drop’s Fall.

Not What We Give, But What We Share, For The Gift Without The Giver Is Bare.