Have Hope. Though Clouds Environs Now, And

Toil Of Science Swells The Wealth Of Art.

Not Without A Shudder May The Human Hand Reach Into The Mysterious Urn Of Destiny.

Even Now, Nature Is The Only Flame, On Which The Poetic Spirit Feeds; From It Alone It Draws All Its Power, To It Alone It Speaks Even In The Artificial, In The Man Engaged In Culture.

A Childlike Mind In Its Simplicity Practises That Science Of Good To Which The Wise May Be Blind.

Even The Weak Become Strong When They Are United.