With Useless Endeavour Forever, Forever, Is Sisyphus

What Child Has A Heart To Sing In This Capricious Clime Of Ours, When Spring Comes Sailing In From The Sea, With Wet And Heavy Cloud-sails And The Misty Pennon Of The East-wind Nailed To The Mast.

Who Dares To Say That He Alone Has Found The Truth?

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

It Is The Harvest Moon! On Gilded Vanes And Roofs Of Villages, On Woodland Crests And Their Aerial Neighborhoods Of Nests Deserted, On The Curtained Window-panes Of Rooms Where Children Sleep, On Country Lanes And Harvest-fields, Its Mystic Splendor Rests.

O Beautiful, Awful Summer Day, What Hast Thou Given, What Taken Away?