
NOVEMBER FIFTEENTH
The parting sun sends out a glow
Across the placid bay,
Touching with glory all the show—
A breeze! Up helm! Away!
Careening to the wind, they reach,
With laugh and call, the shore.
They've left their footprints on the beach,
But them I hear no more.
—Richard Henry Dana.
Art little? Do thy little well:
And for thy comfort know
The great can do their greatest work
No better than just so.
—Goethe.
But be thou an ensample to them that believe, in word, in manner of life, in love, in faith, in purity.
—1 Timothy 4. 12.
Lord God, grant that if I may be complaining of what