Joy, Temperance, And Repose, Slam The Door

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.

White Swan Of Cities Slumbering In Thy Nest . . . White Phantom City, Whose Untrodden Streets Are Rivers, And Whose Pavements Are The Shifting Shadows Of The Palaces And Strips Of Sky.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

No Endeavour Is In Vain; Its Reward Is In The Doing.