This is a man with an old face, always old... There was pathos, in his face, and in his eyes. The early weariness; and sometimes tears in his eyes, Which he let slip unconsciously on his cheek, Or brushed away with an unconcerned hand. There were tears for human suffering, or for a glance Into the vast futility of life, Which he had seen from the first, being old When he was born.

To this generation I would say: Memorize some bit of verse of truth or beauty.

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

To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire-It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

The tongue may be an unruly member-- But silence poisons the soul.

He stripped off the armor of institutional friendships To dedictate his soul To the terrible deities of Truth and Beauty.

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.