The Natural Alone Is Permanent.

No Literature Is Complete Until The Language It Was Written In Is Dead.

Build Today, Then Strong And Sure, With A Firm And Ample Base; And Ascending And Secure. Shall Tomorrow Find Its Place.

Labor With What Zeal We Will, Something Still Remains Undone, Something Uncompleted Still Waits The Rising Of The Sun.

Oh The Long And Dreary Winter! Oh The Cold And Cruel Winter!

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!