A Promise Made Is A Debt Unpaid.

I Remember Little Of The Yukon Or What I Wrote There.

Be Sure Your Wisest Words Are Those You Do Not Say.

Some Praise The Lord For Light, The Living Spark; I Thank God For The Night The Healing Dark.

And Each Forgets, As He Strips And Runs With A Brilliant, Fitful Pace, It's The Steady, Quiet, Plodding Ones Who Win In The Lifelong Race. And Each Forgets That His Youth Has Fled, Forgets That His Prime Is Past, Till He Stands One Day, With A Hope That's Dead, In The Glare Of The Truth At Last.

I Like To Think That When I Fall, A Rain-drop In Death's Shoreless Sea, This Shelf Of Books Along The Wall, Beside My Bed, Will Mourn For Me.