When the measured dance of the hours brings back the happy smile of spring, the buried dead is born again in the life-glance of the sun. The germs which perished to the eye within the cold breast of the earth spring up with joy in the bright realm of day.

Who dares nothing, need hope for nothing.

What is life without the radiance of love?

We, we live! ours are the hours, and the living have their claims.

Time flies on restless pinions - constant never.

Cowards have done good and kind actions, but a coward never pardoned.

Time consecrates; and what is gray with age becomes religion.