...everything That Is, Desires To

Still Desiring, We Live Without Hope.

It Is Necessity And Not Pleasure That Compels Us.

The Man Who Lies Asleep Will Never Waken Fame, And His Desire And All His Life Drift Past Him Like A Dream, And The Traces Of His Memory Fade From Time Like Smoke In Air, Or Ripples On A Stream.

A Man's Renown Is Like The Hue Of Grass, Which Comes And Goes.

At Grief So Deep The Tongue Must Wag In Vain; The Language Of Our Sense And Memory Lacks The Vocabulary Of Such Pain.