The Air Was Fragrant With A Thousand

And The Blue Gentian-flower, That, In The Breeze, Nods Lonely, Of Her Beauteous Race The Last.

Father, Thy Hand Hath Reared These Venerable Columns, Thou Didst Weave This Verdant Roof. Thou Didst Look Down Upon The Naked Earth, And, Forthwith, Rose All These Fair Ranks Of Trees. They, In Thy Sun, Budded, And Shook Their Green Leaves In Thy Breeze, And Shot Towards Heaven.

Winning Isn't Everything, But It Beats Anything In Second Place.

The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire Of The Sky Alone.

Go Forth Under The Open Sky, And List To Nature's Teachings.