Pure Essence, And Pure Matter, And The

Here Pity Only Lives When It Is Dead - Virgil

A Backward Glance Can Often Lift The Heart.

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

Segui Il Tuo Corso Et Lascia Dir Les Genti. (follow Your Road And Let The People Say).

As Fall The Light Autumnal Leaves, One Still The Other Following, Till The Bough Strews All Its Honors On The Earth Below.