And Feel By Turns The

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue.

How Often From The Steep Of Echoing Hill Or Thicket Have We Heard Celestial Voices To The Midnight Air, Sole, Or Responsive Each To Other's Note, Singing Their Great Creator?

Never Can True Reconcilement Grow Where Wounds Of Deadly Hate Have Pierced So Deep.

For What Is Glory But The Blaze Of Fame?

We Shall Sooner Have The Fowl By Hatching The Egg Than By Smashing It. Abraham Lincoln, White House Speech 11 April 1865. Or Arm Th' Obdured Breast With Stubborn Patience As With Triple Steel.