Great Is The Art Of Beginning, But

But Ah! What Once Has Been Shall Be No More! The Groaning Earth In Travail And In Pain Brings Forth Its Races, But Does Not Restore, And The Dead Nations Never Rise Again.

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

Autumn Arrives Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood Upon His Brazen Mail. His Crimson Scarf Is Rent. His Scarlet Banner Drips With Gore. His Step Is Like A Flail Upon The Threshing Floor.

I Cannot Believe Any Man Can Be Perfectly Well In Body, Who Has Much Labor Of The Mind To Perform.

Time Has A Doomsday Book, Upon Whose Pages He Is Continually Recording Illustrious Names. But As Often As A New Name Is Written There, An Old One Disappears. Only A Few Stand In Illuminated Characters Never To Be Effaced.