Historians Are Prophets With Their

Not Without A Shudder May The Human Hand Reach Into The Mysterious Urn Of Destiny.

When The Measured Dance Of The Hours Brings Back The Happy Smile Of Spring, The Buried Dead Is Born Again In The Life-glance Of The Sun. The Germs Which Perished To The Eye Within The Cold Breast Of The Earth Spring Up With Joy In The Bright Realm Of Day.

Revenge Is Barren Of Itself: It Is The Dreadful Food It Feeds On; Its Delight Is Murder, And Its End Is Despair.

Happy He Who Learns To Bear What He Cannot Change.

Sorrows Must Die With The Joys They Outnumber.