Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing

Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust, Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

Ah, Nothing Is Too Late, Till The Tired Heart Shall Cease To Palpitate.

Very Hot And Still The Air Was, Very Smooth The Gliding River, Motionless The Sleeping Shadows.

Thus, Seamed With Many Scars Bursting These Prison Bars, Up To Its Native Stars My Soul Ascended! There From The Flowing Bowl Deep Drinks The Warrior's Soul, Skoal! To The Northland! Skoal! Thus The Tale Ended.