Dost Thou Know What A Hero Is?

There Are Things Of Which I May Not Speak; There Are Dreams That Cannot Die; There Are Thoughts That Make The Strong Heart Weak, And Bring A Pallor Into The Cheek, And A Mist Before The Eye.

And When The Echoes Had Ceased, Like A Sense Of Pain Was The Silence.

Talk Not Of Wasted Affection, Affection Never Was Wasted; If It Enrich Not The Heart Of Another, Its Waters, Returning Back To Their Springs, Like The Rain, Shall Fill Them Full Of Refreshment; That Which The Fountain Sends Forth Returns Again To The Fountain.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

Who Dares To Say That He Alone Has Found The Truth?