What Seems To Us But Dim Funeral

Youth Comes But Once A Life Time. Perhaps, But It Remains Strong In Many For Their Entire Lives.

By The Shore Of Gitche Gumee, By The Shining Big-sea-water, At The Doorway Of His Wigwam, In The Pleasant Summer Morning, Hiawatha Stood And Waited.

Every Man Is In Some Sort A Failure To Himself. No One Ever Reaches The Heights To Which He Aspires.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.

It Is The Harvest Moon! On Gilded Vanes And Roofs Of Villages, On Woodland Crests And Their Aerial Neighborhoods Of Nests Deserted, On The Curtained Window-panes Of Rooms Where Children Sleep, On Country Lanes And Harvest-fields, Its Mystic Splendor Rests.