The Human Voice Is The Organ Of

Very Hot And Still The Air Was, Very Smooth The Gliding River, Motionless The Sleeping Shadows.

Tomorrow Is The Mysterious, Unknown Guest.

And When The Echoes Had Ceased, Like A Sense Of Pain Was The Silence.

Every Man Is In Some Sort A Failure To Himself. No One Ever Reaches The Heights To Which He Aspires.

The Little I Have Seen Of The World Teaches Me To Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger. When I Take The History Of One Poor Heart That Has Sinned And Suffered, And Represent To Myself The Struggles And Temptations It Has Passed Through, The Brief Pulsations Of Joy, The Feverish Inquietude Of Hope And Fear, The Pressure Of Want, The Desertion Of Friends, I Would Fain Leave The Erring Soul Of My Fellow-man With Him From Whose Hand It Came.