A Healthy Nature Needs No God Or

Foster The Beautiful, And Every Hour Thou Tallest New Flowers To Birth.

Man Ever Talks, And Man Ever Dreams Of Better Days That Are Yet To Be, After Glittering Goal, That Distant Gleams, Running And Racing Untiringly. The Worldly May Grow Old And Young As It Will, But The Hope Of Man Is Improvement Still. Hope Bears Him Into Life In Her Arms, She Flutters Around The Boy's Young Bloom, The Soul Of Youth With Her Magic Warms, Nor Rests With Age In The Silent Tomb; For Ends Man His Weary Course At The Grave, There Plants He Hope O'er His Ashes To Wave.

Let No One Despair, Even Though In The Darkest Night The Last Star Of Hope May Disappear.

Why Should I Deem Myself To Be A Chisel, When I Could Be The Artist?

He Cannot Complain Of A Hard Sentence, Who Is Made Master Of His Own Fate.