Thought Takes Man Out Of Servitude, Into

Love Makes Its Record In Deeper Colors As We Grow Out Of Childhood Into Manhood.

In Old Age Our Bodies Are Worn-out Instruments, On Which The Soul Tries In Vain To Play The Melodies Of Youth. But Because The Instrument Has Lost Its Strings, Or Is Out Of Tune, It Does Not Follow That The Musician Has Lost His Skill.

With Useless Endeavour Forever, Forever, Is Sisyphus Rolling His Stone Up The Mountain!

The Hooded Clouds, Like Friars, Tell Their Beads In Drops Of Rain.

The Emigrant's Way O'er The Western Desert Is Mark'd By Camp-fires Long Consum'd And Bones That Bleach In The Sunshine.