All Comes Out Even At

Cherish What Is Dearest While You Have It Near You, And Wait Not Till It Is Far Away. Blind And Deaf That We Are; Oh, Think, If Thou Yet Love Anybody Living, Wait Not Till Death Sweep Down The Paltry Little Dust Clouds And Dissonances Of The Moment, And All Be Made At Last So Mournfully Clear And Beautiful, When It Is Too Late.

He That Works And Does Some Poem, Not He That Merely Says One, Is Worthy Of The Name Of Poet.

It Is A Fact Which Escapes No One, That, Generally Speaking, Whoso Is Acquainted With His Worth Has But A Little Stock To Cultivate Acquaintance With.

How Great A Possibility, How Small A Realized Result.

A Man Cannot Make A Pair Of Shoes Rightly Unless He Do It In A Devout Manner.