All Your Strength In Is Your Union.

Your Silent Tents Of Green We Deck With Fragrant Flowers; Yours Has The Suffering Been, The Memory Shall Be Ours.

Welcome, My Old Friend, Welcome To A Foreign Fireside.

The Rapture Of Pursuing Is The Prize The Vanquished Gain.

He Had Mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic Mittens Made Of Deer-skin; When Upon His Hands He Wore Them, He Could Smite The Rocks Asunder, He Could Grind Them Into Powder.

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.