Time Is The Subtle Thief Of Youth.

Who Knows Not Circe, The Daughter Of The Sun , Whose Charmed Cup Whoever Tasted, Lost His Upright Shape, And Downward Fell Into A Groveling Swine?

In The Sweat Of Thy Face Thou Shalt Eat Bread, Till Thou Return Unto The Ground; For Thou Out Of The Ground Wast Taken; Know Thy Birth, For Dust Thou Art, And Shalt To Dust Return.

Rich And Various Gems Inlay The Unadorned Bosom Of The Deep.

A Death-like Sleep, A Gentle Wafting To Immortal Life.

New Presbyter Is But Old Priest Writ Large.