Our yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.

The artist labors while he may, But finds at best too brief the day And, tho' his works outlast the time And nation that they make sublime, He feels and sees that Nature knows Nothing of time in what she does, But has a leisure infinite Wherein to do her work aright.

The noblest works of human art and pride show that their makers were not satisfied.

What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship that will cross the sea, we plant the mast to carry the sails, we plant the planks to withstand the gales--the keel, the keelson, and beam and knee--we plant the ship when we plant the tree.

Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.

Love is the key-note of the universe-- The theme, the melody.

Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore Of a great sea beyond.

Behold the grapes and all the fruits that Autumn gives today, As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of Decay!