Taste The Joy That Springs From Labor.

It Is The Heart And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain.

The Day Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind In Never Weary; The Vine Still Clings To The Mouldering Wall, But At Every Gust The Dead Leaves Fall, And The Day Is Dark And Dreary.

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

The Things That Have Been And Shall Be No More, The Things That Are, And That Hereafter Shall Be, The Things That Might Have Been, And Yet Were Not, The Fading Twilight Of Joys Departed.

Love Makes Its Record In Deeper Colors As We Grow Out Of Childhood Into Manhood; As The Emperors Signed Their Names In Green Ink When Under Age, But When Of Age, In Purple.