Most Brilliant Star Upon The Crest Of

Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The Misery Of Mortal Life.

The Dead Keep Their Secrets, And In A While We Shall Be As Wise As They - And As Taciturn.

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

How Beautiful The Yesterday That Stood Over Me Like A Rainbow! I Am Alone, The Past Is Past. I See The Future Stretch All Dark And Barren As A Rainy Sea.