His Mind Of Man, A Secret Makes

I Do Not Like The Man Who Squanders Life For Fame; Give Me The Man Who Living Makes A Name.

Portraits Are To Daily Faces As An Evening West To A Fine, Pedantic Sunshine In A Satin Vest.

My Faith Is Larger Than The Hills— So When The Hills Decay— My Faith Must Take The Purple Wheel To Show The Sun The Way— 'tis First He Steps Upon The Vane— And Then — Upon The Hill— And Then Abroad The World He Go To Do His Golden Will— And If His Yellow Feet Should Miss— The Bird Would Not Arise— The Flowers Would Slumber On Their Stems— No Bells Have Paradise— How Dare I, Therefore, Stint A Faith On Which So Vast Depends— Lest Firmament Should Fail For Me— The Rivet In The Bands

Narcotics Cannot Still The Tooth. That Nibbles At The Soul

Some Keep The Sabbath Going To Church, I Keep It Staying At Home, With A Bobolink For A Chorister, And An Orchard For A Dome.