Spare me the whispering, crowded room, the friends who come and gape and go, the ceremonious air of gloom - all, which makes death a hideous show.

And each day brings it's pretty dust, Our soon-choked souls to fll And we forget because we must, And not because we will.

Truth illuminates and gives joy; and it is by the bond of joy, not of pleasure, that men's spirits are indissolubly held.

Religion is ethics heightened, enkindled, lit up by feeling

Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.

Who hesitate and falter life away, and lose tomorrow the ground won today.

Journalism is literature in a hurry.