Opposition Always Inflames The Enthusiast, Never Converts

When The Measured Dance Of The Hours Brings Back The Happy Smile Of Spring, The Buried Dead Is Born Again In The Life-glance Of The Sun. The Germs Which Perished To The Eye Within The Cold Breast Of The Earth Spring Up With Joy In The Bright Realm Of Day.

Arrow-swift The Present Sweepeth, And Motionless Forever Stands The Past.

Posterity Weaves No Garlands For Imitators.

Let No One Despair, Even Though In The Darkest Night The Last Star Of Hope May Disappear.

Spring Flies, And With It All The Train It Leads; And Flowers, In Fading, Leave Us But Their Seeds.