the much-sought prize of eternal youth Is just arrested growth.

In time you shall see Fate approach you In the shape of your own image in the mirror.

This is Darrow, Inadequately scrawled, with his young, old heart, And his drawl, and his infinite paradox And his sadness, and kindness, And his artist sense that drives him to shape his life To something harmonious, even against the schemes of God.

There is no marriage in Heaven, but there is love.

There is the silence of age, too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it in words intelligible to those who have not lived the great range of life.

. . . the weal of the race, and the cause of humanity, here and now, are enough To give life meaning and death as well.

The mind sees the world as a thing apart, And the soul makes the world at one with itself. A mirror scratched reflects no image— And this is the silence of wisdom.