Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

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

Noble Souls, Through Dust And Heat, Rise From Disaster And Defeat The Stronger.

Alas! It Is Not Till Time, With Reckless Hand, Has Torn Out Half The Leaves From The Book Of Human Life To Light The Fires Of Passion With From Day To Day, That Man Begins To See That The Leaves Which Remain Are Few In Number.

O Ye Dead Poets, Who Are Living Still Immortal In Your Verse, Though Life Be Fled, And Ye, O Living Poets, Who Are Dead Though Ye Are Living, If Neglect Can Kill, Tell Me If In The Darkest Hours Of Ill, With Drops Of Anguish Falling Fast And Red From The Sharp Crown Of Thorns Upon Your Head, Ye Were Not Glad Your Errand To Fulfill?

O Music! Language Of The Soul, Of Love, Of God To Man; Bright Beam From Heaven Thrilling, That Lightens Sorrow's Weight.