Learn To Labour And To Wait.

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

Were A Star Quenched On High,for Ages Would Its Light,still Travelling Downward From The Sky,shine On Our Mortal Sight. So When A Great Man Dies,for Years Beyond Our Ken,the Light He Leaves Behind Him Liesupon The Paths Of Men.

Labor With What Zeal We Will, Something Still Remains Undone, Something Uncompleted Still Waits The Rising Of The Sun.

Our Pleasures And Our Discontents, Are Rounds By Which We May Ascend.

How Wonderful Is The Human Voice! It Is Indeed The Organ Of The Soul. The Intellect Of Man Is Enthroned Visibly On His Forehead And In His Eye, And The Heart Of Man Is Written On His Countenance, But The Soul, The Soul Reveals Itself In The Voice Only.