No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.
Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!
Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.