A weed is but an unloved flower.

It is never too late to begin rebuilding, Though all into ruins your life seems hurled; For see! how the light of the New Year is gilding The wan, worn face of the bruised old world.

There was hell in her eyes! She was worn and jaded Her soul is at war with the life she has led. As I looked on that face so strangely faded I wonder God did not strike me dead.

Always continue the climb. It is possible for you to do whatever you choose.

Our lives are songs; God write the words And we set them to music at pleasure; And the song grows glad, or sweet or sad, As we choose to fashion the measure.

Know that you are great...so dominate.

Let us clear a little space, And make Love a burial-place. He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me.