Time perfects all living beings as well as kills them; it alone is awake when all others are asleep. Time is insurmountable.

Whatever shall we do in that remote spot? Well, we will write our memoirs. Work is the scythe of time.

We may cry out desperately for time to pause in her passage, but time is adamant to every plea and rushes on. Over the bleached bones and jumbled residues of numerous civilizations are written the pathetic words, "Too late."

We are now faced with the fact that tomorrow is today. We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In this unfolding conundrum of life and history there is such a thing as being too late.

We must use time wisely and forever realize that the time is always ripe to do right.

There will be today, there will be tomorrow, there will be always, and there was yesterday, and there was the day before.