All, All Are Gone, The Old Familiar

Let Us Live For The Beauty Of Our Own Reality.

Who Has Not Felt How Sadly Sweet The Dream Of Home, The Dream Of Home, Steals O'er The Heart, Too Soon To Fleet, When Far O'er Sea Or Land We Roam?

Man Is A Gaming Animal.

We Are Nothing; Less Than Nothing, And Dreams. We Are Only What Might Have Been, And Must Wait Upon The Tedious Shores Of Lethe Millions Of Ages Before We Have Existence, And A Name.

I Toiled After It, Sir, As Some Men Toil After Virtue.