The Low Desire, The Base Design That

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

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

We Are All Architects Of Faith, Ever Living In These Walls Of Time.

No Endeavour Is In Vain; Its Reward Is In The Doing.

And The Night Shall Be Filled With Music, And The Cares, That Infest The Day, Shall Fold Their Tents Like The Arabs, And Silently Steal Away.