Why stay on the earth except to grow.

Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

If all the world is a stage and life is just a play upon it, get me two seats in the stalls.

The candid incline to surmise of late that the Christian faith proves false.

If you can sit at set of sun And count the deeds that you have done And counting find oneself-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him that heard. One glance most kind, Which fell like sunshine where he went, Then you may count that day well spent.

Truth never hurts the teller.

How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!