Our breath is brief, and being so Let's make our heaven here below, And lavish kindness as we go.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.

Some praise the Lord for Light, The living spark; I thank God for the Night The healing dark.

Be sure your wisest words are those you do not say.

This is the law of the Yukon, that only the strong shall thrive; that surely the weak shall perish, and only the fit survive.

Write verse, not poetry. The public wants verse. If you have a talent for poetry, then don't by any means mother it, but try your hand at verse.

The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide;And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan,But you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on.