Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

All Are Architects Of Fate, Working In These Walls Of Time; Some With Massive Deeds And Great, Some With Ornaments Of Rhyme.

The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf.

The Rays Of Happiness, Like Those Of Light, Are Colorless When Unbroken.

They Who Live In History Only Seemed To Walk The Earth Again.