Appearance Rules The World.

Only Through Beauty's Morning-gate, Dost Thou Penetrate The Land Of Knowledge.

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.

In The Society, Where People Are Just Parts In A Larger Machine, Individuals Are Unable To Develop Fully.

Never The Grave Gives Back What It Has Won!

Nothing Leads To Good That Is Not Natural.