Alas, how can we help but mourn When hero bosoms yield their breath! A century itself may bear But once the flower of such a death.

Medicine is only palliative. For behind disease lies the cause and this cause NO DRUG can reach.

The arctic loneliness of age.

Alas, how can we help but mourn When hero bosoms yield their breath! A century itself may bear But once the flower of such a death.

There are those who suffer and grow strong; there are those who suffer and grow weak. This mystery of pain is still for me the saddest of earth's disabilities.

He alone has lost the art to live who cannot win new friends.

Death's but one more to-morrow.