The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make

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

'tis Always Morning Somewhere, And Abovethe Awakening Continents, From Shore To Shore,somewhere The Birds Are Singing Evermore.

Each Day Is A Branch Of The Tree Of Life Laden Heavily With Fruit. If We Lie Down Lazily Beneath It, We May Starve; But If We Shake The Branches, Some Of The Fruit Will Fall For Us.

The Lamps Are Lit, The Fires Burn Bright. The House Is Full Of Life And Light.

Men Of Genius Are Often Dull And Inert In Society; As The Blazing Meteor, When It Descends To Earth, Is Only A Stone.