Worthless Is The Nation That

I Am My Own Heaven And Hell!

The Dictates Of The Heart Are The Voice Of Fate.

Man Ever Talks, And Man Ever Dreams Of Better Days That Are Yet To Be, After Glittering Goal, That Distant Gleams, Running And Racing Untiringly. The Worldly May Grow Old And Young As It Will, But The Hope Of Man Is Improvement Still. Hope Bears Him Into Life In Her Arms, She Flutters Around The Boy's Young Bloom, The Soul Of Youth With Her Magic Warms, Nor Rests With Age In The Silent Tomb; For Ends Man His Weary Course At The Grave, There Plants He Hope O'er His Ashes To Wave.

Peace Is Rarely Denied To The Peaceful.

Think With Awe On The Slow And Quiet Power Of Time.