Christmas Is The Day That

Fame Is But An Inscription On A Grave, And Glory The Melancholy Blazon On A Coffin Lid.

I Have Learned To Prize The Quiet, Lightning Deed, Not The Applauding Thunder At Its Heels That Men Call Fame.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads In Its Own Footsteps.

There Is No Ghost So Difficult To Lay As The Ghost Of An Injury.