Pale January Lay In Its Cradle Day

Is Life Worth Living? Yes, So Long As There Is Wrong To Right. So Long As Faith With Freedom Reigns And Loyal Hope Survives, And Gracious Charity Remains To Leaven Lowly Lives; While There Is Only One Untrodden Tract For Intellect Or Will, And Men Are Free To Think And Act, Life Is Worth Living Still.

No One Can Rightly Call His Garden His Own Unless He Himself Made It.

Never Did Form More Fairy Thread The Dance Than She Who Scours The Hills To Find It Flowers; Never Did Sweeter Lips Chained Ears Entrance Than Hers That Move, True To Its Striking Hours; No Hands So White E'er Decked The Warrior's Lance, As Those Which Tend Its Lamp As Darkness Lours; And Never Since Dear Christ Expired For Man, Had Holy Shrine So Fair A Sacristan.

The Glory Of Gardening: Hands In The Dirt, Head In The Sun, Heart With Nature. To Nurture A Garden Is To Feed Not Just On The Body, But The Soul.

In Vain Would Science Scan And Trace Firmly Her Aspect. All The While, There Gleams Upon Her Far-off Face A Vague Unfathomable Smile.