Tomorrow Is No Man's Gift.

He Came By A Leap To The Goal Of Purpose, Not By The Toilsome Steps Of Reason. On The Instant His Headlong Spirit Declared His Purpose: This Was The One Being For Him In All The World: At This Altar He Would Light A Lamp Of Devotion, And Keep It Burning Forever.

It Is Not The Broken Heart That Kills, But Broken Pride, Monseigneur.

The Music Throbbed In A Voice Of Singular And Delicate Power; The Air Was Resonant With Melody, Love And Pain. The Meanest Italian In The Gallery Far Up Beneath The Ceiling, The Most Exalted Of The Land In The Boxes And The Stalls, Leaned Indulgently Forward, To Be Swept By This Sweet Storm Of Song.

Love Knows Not Distance; It Hath No Continent; Its Eyes Are For The Stars, Its Feet For The Swords; It Continueth, Though An Army Lay Waste The Pasture; It Comforteth When There Are No Medicines; It Hath The Relish Of Manna; And By It Do Men Live In The Desert.

Man Is Born In A Day, And He Dies In A Day, And The Thing Is Easily Over; But To Have A Sick Heart For Three-fourths Of One's Lifetime Is Simply To Have Death Renewed Every Morning; And Life At That Price Is Not Worth Living.