The Gentle Wind, A Sweet

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

The Course Of My Long Life Hath Reached At Last In Fragile Bark Over A Tempestuous Sea The Common Harbor, Where Must Rendered Be Account For All The Actions Of The Past.

A Spirit Of Criticism, If Indulged In, Leads To A Censoriousness Of Disposition That Is Destructive Of All Nobler Feeling. The Man Who Lives To Find Faults Has A Miserable Mission.

The Morrow Was A Bright September Morn; The Earth Was Beautiful As If Newborn; There Was Nameless Splendor Everywhere, That Wild Exhilaration In The Air, Which Makes The Passers In The City Street Congratulate Each Other As They Meet.

Build Today, Then Strong And Sure, With A Firm And Ample Base; And Ascending And Secure. Shall Tomorrow Find Its Place.