What Always Was Must Always Be.

All Fled—all Done, So Lift Me On The Pyre— The Feast Is Over, And The Lamps Expire.

In This World Men Struggle And Suffer Vainly, Finding Pleasure Only In The Bright Madness Of Battle; Dying, Their Souls Enter A Gray Misty Realm Of Clouds And Icy Winds, To Wander Cheerlessly Throughout Eternity.

There Comes, Even To Kings, The Time Of Great Weariness. Then The Gold Of The Throne Is Brass, The Silk Of The Palace Becomes Drab. The Gems In The Diadem And Upon The Fingers Of The Women Sparkle Drearily Like The Ice Of White Seas; The Speech Of Men Is As The Empty Rattle Of A Jester's Bell And The Feel Comes Of Things Unreal; Even The Sun Is Copper In The Sky And The Breath Of The Green Ocean Is No Longer Fresh.

I Have Accomplished Little Enough, But Such As It Is, It Is The Result Of My Own Efforts.

It Is Better To Go In The Dark When The Road Must Pass A Lion And There Is No Other Road.