O Thou Sculptor, Painter, Poet! Take This

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.

Live Up To The Best That Is In You: Live Noble Lives, As You All May, In Whatever Condition You May Find Yourselves.

The Grave Itself Is But A Covered Bridge, Leading From Light To Light, Through A Brief Darkness!

Is This Is A Dream? O, If It Be A Dream, Let Me Sleep On, And Do Not Wake Me Yet!

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.