Authors, Like Coins, Grow Dear As They

This Long Disease, My Life.

What Nothing Earthly Gives, Or Can Destroy, The Soul's Calm Sunshine, And The Heart-felt Joy, Is Virtue's Prize.

The Season When To Come, And When To Go, To Sing, Or Cease To Sing, We Never Know.

For Thee I Dim These Eye And Stuff This Head With All Such Reading As Was Never Read.

Great Oaks Grow From Little Acorns. He Has A Green Thumb. He Has Green Fingers. He's Sowing His Wild Oats. Here Ceres' Gifts In Waving Prospect Stand, And Nodding Tempt The Joyful Reaper's Hand.