Apothegms Form A Short Cut To Much

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.

Sweet Are The Little Brooks That Run O'er Pebbles Glancing In The Sun, Singing In Soothing Tones.

It Was Not In The Winter Our Loving Lot Was Cast! It Was The Time Of Roses, We Plucked Them As We Passed!

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.

Coquetry Is The Champagne Of Love.