That Glittering Hope Is Immemorial And Beckons

Many A Maiden, With White Feet Glancing Light As Air, Made Happy Music Through The Gloom.

The God Knows When To Smile.

Our Ancestors... Purged Their Guilt By Banishment, Not Death. And By So Doing, They Stopped That Endless Vicious Cycle Of Murder And Revenge.

The Wise With Hope Support The Pains Of Life.

Alas, How Right The Ancient Saying Is: We, Who Are Old, Are Nothing Else But Noise And Shape. Like Mimicries Of Dreams We Go, And Have No Wits, Although We Think Us Wise.