It Is Not Right To Exult Over

The Son Of Saturn Gave The Nod With His Dark Brows. The Ambrosial Curls Upon The Sovereign One's Immortal Head Were Shaken, And With Them The Mighty Mount, Olympus Trembled.

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Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

For I Am Yearning To Visit The Limits Of The All-nurturing Earth, And Oceans, From Whom The Gods Are Sprung.

Without Question It May Be Said Of Vancouver That Her Position, Geographically, Is Imperial To A Degree, That Her Possibilities Are Enormous, And That With But A Feeble Stretch Of The Imagination Those Possibilities Might Wisely Be Deemed Certainties.