History Is The New Poetry.

Today Is Not Yesterday: We Ourselves Change; How Can Our Works And Thoughts, If They Are Always To Be The Fittest, Continue Always The Same? Change, Indeed Is Painful; Yet Ever Needful; And If Memory Have Its Force And Worth, So Also Has Hope.

Generations Are As The Days Of Toilsome Mankind; Death And Birth Are The Vesper And The Matin Bells That Summon Mankind To Sleep And To Rise Refreshed For New Advancement. What The Father Has Made, The Son Can Make And Enjoy; But Has Also Work Of His Own Appointed Him. Thus All Things Wax And Roll Onwards: Arts, Establishments, Opinions, Nothing Is Ever Completed, But Ever Completing.

There Is In Man A Higher Than Love Of Happiness; He Can Do Without Happiness, And Instead Thereof Find Blessedness.

If I Had My Way, The World Would Hear A Pretty Stern Command - Exit Christ.

Poetry, Therefore, We Will Call Musical Thought.