Our Ideals Are Our Better Selves.

Enthusiasm Imparts Itself Magnetically And Fuses All Into One Happy And Harmonious Unity Of Feeling And Sentiment.

The Fable Runs That The Gods Mix Our Pains And Pleasure In One Cup, And Thus Mingle For Us The Adulterate Immortality Which We Alone Are Permitted Here To Enjoy. Voluptuous Raptures, Could We Prolong These At Pleasure, Would Dissipate And Dissolve Us. A Sip Is The Most That Mortals Are Permitted From Any Goblet Of Delight.

Our Dreams Drench Us In Senses, And Senses Steps Us Again In Dreams.

Plans Made In The Nursery Can Change The Course Of History

Where There Is A Mother In The Home, Matters Go Well.