Ripe In Wisdom Was He, But Patient,

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

For The Structure That We Raise, Time Is With Materials Filled; Our To-days And Yesterdays Are The Blocks With Which We Build.

No Tears Dim The Sweet Look That Nature Wears.

The Sunshine Fails, The Shadows Grow More Dreary, And I Am Near To Fall, Infirm And Weary.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.