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But as for all the rest, There's hardly one who stands the Artist's test. The Artist is a rare, rare breed. There were but two, forsooth, In all me time and The Other One was Booth.

I think I love and reverence all arts equally, only putting my own just above the others, because in it I recognize the union and culmination of my own. To me it seems as if when God conceived the world, that was Poetry, He formed it, and that was Sculpture, He colored it, and that was Painting, He peopled it with living beings, and that was the grand, divine, eternal Drama.

The North! the South! the West! the East! No one the most and none the least, But each with its own heart and mind, Each of its own distinctive kind, Yet each a part and none the whole, But all together form one soul, That soul Our Country at its best, No North, no South, no East, no West, No yours, no mine, but always Ours, Merged in one Power our lesser powers, For no one's favor, great or small, But all for Each and each for All.

He is so little to be so large! Why, a train of cars, or a whale-back barge Couldn't carry the freight Of the monstrous weight Of all of his qualities, good and great. And tho' one view is as good as another Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother!

"The hand that rocks the cradle"--but there is no such hand. It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us understand; So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish days, When mothers reared their children in unscientific ways; When they jounced them and they bounced them, those poor dwarfs of long ago-- The Washingtons and Jeffersons, you know.

The Moo-cow-moo's got a tail like a rope En it's ravelled down where it grows, En it's just like feeling a piece of soap All over the moo-cow's nose.

It is not the weight of jewel or plate, Or the fondle of silk or fur; "Tis the spirit in which the gift is rich, As the gifts of the Wise Ones were, And we are not told whose gift was gold, Or whose was the gift of myrrh.

Kisses kept are wasted; Love is to be tasted. There are some you love, I know; Be not loath to tell them so. Lips go dry and eyes grow wet Waiting to be warmly met, Keep them not in waiting yet; Kisses kept are wasted.

But maybe prayer is a road to rise, A mountain path leading toward the skies To assist the spirit who truly tries. But it isn't a shibboleth, creed, nor code, It isn't a pack-horse to carry your load, It isn't a wagon, it's only a road. And perhaps the reward of the spirit who tries Is not the goal, but the exercise!

Back of the boy is Wilson, Pledge of his high degree, Back of the boy is Lincoln, Lincoln and Grant and Lee; Back of the boy is Jackson, Jackson and Tippecanoe, Back of each son is Washington, And the old red, white and blue!

I have seen men march to the wars, and then I have watched their homeward tread, And they brought back bodies of living men, But their eyes were fold and dead. So, Buddy no matter what else the fame, No matter what else the prize, I want you to come back thru The Flame With the boy-look still in your eyes!

So you tell yourself you are pretty find clay To have tricked temptation and turned it away, But wait, my friend, for a different day; Wait till you want to want to!

You may batter your way through the thick of the fray, You may sweat, you may swear, you may grunt; You may be a jack-fool, if you must, but this rule Should ever be kept at the front;-- Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down your head And kick every worriment out of the bed.