We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!

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.

Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.

The bravest are the tenderest.

I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.