Put in the picture me not, in doleful statistics, being is but an unfilled daydream, for the essence is lifeless that slumbers, and things are not, what they appear.

Being is true! Being is sincere! And the grave is not its aspiration, Dust we are, count it so, to dust we repeat, count it so. Dust, was not spoken of the soul, count it so.

Not delight, and not sorrowfulness, is our ordained conclusion or means, but to proceed, that every future uncovers us beyond than at present.

Drawing is time-consuming, and moment is ephemeral, and our hearts, though corpulent and valiant, motionless, like barely audible notes, are thumping interment paces to the earth. Be present, a male leader in the contention.

In the earth’s expansive meadow encounter, in the billet of subsistence, be not similar to moronic, single-minded cattle! Dependence upon no upcoming, however gratifying! Let the deceased times of yore, secrete its departed! Take action, act in the breathing current spirit within, and God in the clouds. Take heed, for God will come through the clouds of our confusion.

Lives of impressive men all remind us, we can formulate our lives uplifting and passing, leave at the back of us tracks on the sands of era. Tracks, that perchance a different, seafaring over life’s somber core, a pitiful and stranded brother, bearing in mind, shall take mind again. Give permission us, then be upbeat and responsibility with compassion for any destiny; at rest achieving, still pursuing, be taught to employment and stay.

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