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!

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.

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.

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.

But as for all the rest, There's hardly one (I may say none) who stands the Artist's test. The Artist is a rare, rare breed. There were but two, forsooth, In all me time (the stage's prime!) and The Other One was Booth.

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!