Gray Hairs Seem To My

Art Is Indeed Not The Bread But The Wine Of Life.

Man Has Here Two And A Half Minutes-one To Smile, One To Sigh, And A Half To Love: For In The Midst Of This Minute He Dies.

Our Birthdays Are Feathers In The Broad Wing Of Time.

Repetition Is The Mother Of Education.

Feelings Of Man Are Always Pure And The Brightest To The Meeting Time And Farewell.