Ah, Nothing Is Too Late, Till The

A Boy's Will Is The Wind's Will.

Buried Was The Bloody Hatchet; Buried Was The Dreadful War-club; Buried Were All Warlike Weapons, And The War-cry Was Forgotten. Then Was Peace Among The Nations.

A Millstone And The Human Heart Are Driven Ever Round, If They Have Nothing Else To Grind, They Must Themselves Be Ground.

If We Love One Another, Nothing, In Truth, Can Harm Us, Whatever Mischances May Happen.

Let Him Not Boast Who Puts His Armor On As He Who Puts It Off, The Battle Done.