A Thought Often Makes Us Hotter Than

The Soul Never Grows Old.

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

Taste The Joy That Springs From Labor.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.

Sang In Tones Of Deep Emotion Songs Of Love And Songs Of Longing.