The Dream Is Short, Repentance Long.

In The Ardor Of Pursuit Men Soon Forget The Goal From Which They Start.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

Without A Home Must The Soldier Go, A Changeful Wanderer, And Can Warm Himself At No Home-lit Hearth.

The Future Comes Slowly, The Present Flies And The Past Stands Still Forever.

In A Narrow Circle The Mind Grows Narrow. The More One Expands, The Larger Their Aims.