Art Is The Gift Of God, And

Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining.

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

Music Is The Language Spoken By Angels.

Silently, One By One, In The Infinite Meadows Of Heaven, Blossomed The Lovely Stars, The Forget-me-nots Of The Angels.