Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes, work never begun.

It is not the deed we do Though the deed be never so fair, But the love that the dear Lord looketh for, Hidden with lovely care In the heart of the deed so fair.

And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:-- We are as they; Like them we fade away As doth a leaf.

Silence is more musical than any song.

My heart is breaking for a little love

My heart is like a singing bird.