The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

Art is the child of Nature.

From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.