From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

It Is Autumn; Not Without But Within Me Is The Cold. Youth And Spring Are All About; It Is I That Have Grown Old.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Art Of All The Arts. Painting And Sculpture Are But Images, Are Merely Shadows Cast By Outward Things On Stone Or Canvas, Having In Themselves No Separate Existence. Architecture, Existing In Itself, And Not In Seeming A Something It Is Not, Surpasses Them As Substance Shadow.

Life Is Real! Life Is Earnest! And The Grave Is Not Its Goal; Dust Thou Art, To Dust Returnest, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.

Each Morning Sees Some Task Begun, Each Evening Sees It Close; Something Attempted, Something Done, Has Earned A Night's Repose.

The Morning Pouring Everywhere, Its Golden Glory On The Air.