Great Is The Art Of

We Have Not Wings We Cannot Soar; But, We Have Feet To Scale And Climb, By Slow Degrees, By More And More, The Cloudy Summits Of Our Time.

Men Should Soon Make Up Their Minds To Be Forgotten, And Look About Them, Or Within Them, For Some Higher Motive In What They Do Than The Approbation Of Men, Which Is Fame, Namely, Their Duty; That They Should Be Constantly And Quietly At Work, Each In His Sphere, Regardless Of Effects, And Leaving Their Fame To Take Care Of Itself.

Then Stars Arise, And The Night Is Holy.

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

The Day Is Done; And Slowly From The Scene The Stooping Sun Upgathers His Spent Shafts, And Puts Them Back Into His Golden Quiver!