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.

Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

Rule by patience, Laughing Water!

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

A boy's will is the wind's will.

To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.