Joy, Temperance, And Repose, Slam The Door

Every Man Is In Some Sort A Failure To Himself. No One Ever Reaches The Heights To Which He Aspires.

A Boy's Will Is The Wind's Will, And The Thought's Of Youth Are Long, Long Thoughhts

Ah Me! What Wonder-working, Occult Science Can From The Ashes In Our Hearts Once More The Rose Of Youth Restore? What Craft Of Alchemy Can Bid Defiance To Time And Change, And For A Single Hour Renew This Phantom-flower?

Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing In Its Place Is Best; And What Seems But Idle Show Strengthens And Supports The Rest.

For His Heart Was In His Work, And The Heart Giveth Grace Unto Every Art.