The Heart Forgets Its Sorrow And Ache.

Joy Comes, Grief Goes, We Know Not How.

Time Is, After All, The Greatest Of Poets; And The Sons Of Memory Stand A Better Chance Of Being The Heirs Of Fame.

Before Man Made Us Citizens, Great Nature Made Us Men.

Wut 's Words To Them Whose Faith An' Truth On War's Red Techstone Rang True Metal; Who Ventered Life An' Love An' Youth For The Gret Prize O' Death In Battle?

It Is Not A Great Xerxes Army Of Words, But A Compact Greek Ten Thousand That March Safely Down To Posterity.