Whatever Hath Been Written Shall Remain, Nor

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

To Be Seventy Years Old Is Like Climbing The Alps. You Reach A Snow-crowned Summit, And See Behind You The Deep Valley Stretching Miles And Miles Away, And Before You Other Summits Higher And Whiter, Which You May Have Strength To Climb, Or May Not. Then You Sit Down And Meditate And Wonder Which It Will Be.

It Has Done Me Good To Be Somewhat Parched By The Heat And Drenched By The Rain Of Life.

What Is Time? The Shadow On The Dial, The Striking Of The Clock, The Running Of The Sand, Day And Night, Summer And Winter, Months, Years, Centuries-these Are But Arbitrary And Outward Signs, The Measure Of Time, Not Time Itself. Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

Nature Is A Revelation Of God; Art A Revelation Of Man.