He Who Trusts A Secret

Words Are But Pictures Of Our Thoughts.

Love Reckons Hours For Months, And Days For Years; And Every Little Absence Is An Age.

Death Ends Our Woes, And The Kind Grave Shuts Up The Mournful Scene.

And After Hearing What Our Church Can Say, If Still Our Reason Runs Another Way, That Private Reason 'tis More Just To Curb, Than By Disputes The Public Peace Disturb; For Points Obscure Are Of Small Use To Learn, But Common Quiet Is Mankind's Concern.

Reason Is A Crutch For Age, But Youth Is Strong Enough To Walk Alone.