Lo, the citadel doth stand, a hymn of stone, Crowned with the sun, yet kissed by shade alone. Its arches sing of kingdoms long decayed, Where time itself in chiseled lines is laid. The statues, silent, bear their weary guard, Eyes turned to heavens, gazes cold and hard. O ancient hall, thy breath is dust and flame, Yet still thou whisper’st glory’s fleeting name.
In these fleeting days of mortal existence, when the sun bestows its golden light upon both the humble and the proud, it behoveth us to contemplate the gentle rhythm of life’s procession.
For verily, each moment passeth like the whisper of a zephyr upon the meadow, scarce perceived ere it is gone. The world, adorned with manifold wonders, doth invite the earnest soul to reflection; to look upon the silent grandeur of the mountains, the ceaseless murmur of the sea, and the secret language of the stars, is to be reminded that man, though fragile and transient, is yet bound to eternity by his thirst for knowledge and his yearning for beauty. Thus, let not the cares of common toil eclipse the nobler faculties of the spirit, but let every heart be lifted to those pure delights wherein true contentment may be found