Each Present Joy Or Sorrow Seems The

When You Depart From Me Sorrow Abides And Happiness Takes His Leave.

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.

O Time, Thou Must Untangle This, Not I. It Is Too Hard A Knot For Me T'untie.

There's Not A Shirt And A Half In All My Company, And The Half Shirt Is Two Napkins Tacked Together And Thrown Over The Shoulders Like A Herald's Coat Without Sleeves.

The Eye Of Man Hath Not Heard, The Ear Of Man Hath Not Seen, Man's Hand Is Not Able To Taste, His Tongue To Conceive, Nor His Heart To Report, What My Dream Was.