Then Stars Arise, And The Night Is

Hope Has As Many Lives As A Cat Or A King.

The Air Is Full Of Farewells To The Dying. And Mournings For The Dead.

More Hearts Are Breaking In This World Of Ours Than One Would Say. In Distant Villages And Solitudes Remote, Where Winds Have Wafted The Barbed Seeds Of Love, Or Birds Of Passage Scattered Them In Their Flight, Do They Take Root, And Grow In Silence, And In Silence Perish.

A Sermon Is No Sermon In Which I Cannot Hear The Heartbeat.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.