Hours Fly, Flowers Die: New Days, New

The Storm Is Ended! The Impartial Sunlaughs Down Upon The Battle Lost And Won,and Crowns The Triumph Of The Cloudy Hostin Rolling Lines Retreating To The Coast.

How Fascinating Is Death, The Extinction Of Life. One Moment Here And The Next Gone. The Light Put Out And Only The Empty Bag Of The Body Left.

Long Ago Apollo Called To Aristæus, Youngest Of The Shepherds, Saying, "i Will Make You Keeper Of My Bees." Golden Were The Hives, And Golden Was The Honey; Golden, Too, The Music, Where The Honey-makers Hummed Among The Trees.

We May Be Able To Tell How Many Stars Are In The Milky Way; We May Be Able To Count The Petals Of Every Flower, And Number The Bones Of Every Bird; But Unless Faith Leads Us To A Deeper Understanding, A More Reverent Comprehension Of The Significance Of The Universe, God Can Be No More Pleased With Our Knowledge Than The Painter Is Pleased With The Fly Which Touches His Picture With Its Feelers, And Sips The Varnish From The Surface, And Dies Without Dreaming Of The Meaning, Thought, Feeling, Embodied In The Colors.

Faith Is An Adventure; It Is The Courage Of The Soul To Face The Unknown. But That Courage Springs From The Hope And Confidence Of The Soul That Its Adventure Will Succeed.