Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.

Day And Night, Seed-time And Harvest, Heat And Hoary Frost Shall Hold Their Course, Till Fire Purge All Things New.

There Swift Return Diurnal, Merely To Officiate Light Round This Opacous Earth, This Punctual Spot.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her Rising Sweet, With Charm Of Earliest Birds.

Courtesy Which Oft Is Found In Lowly Sheds, With Smoky Rafters, Than In Tapestry Halls And Courts Of Princes, Where It First Was Named.

Who Overcomes By Force, Hath Overcome But Half His Foe.