In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

For while the tired waves vainly breaking Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency.

Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been, things remain.

The past was great no doubt, but I sincerely believe that the future will be more glorious still.

I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past,-so good night!

Every crowd has a silver lining.