Fools, When Their Roof-tree Falls, Think It

In The Ocean Of Baseness, The Deeper We Get, The Easier The Sinking.

To Genius Life Never Grows Commonplace.

Once To Every Man And Nation, Comes The Moment To Decide, In The Strife Of Truth With Falsehood, For The Good Or Evil Side; Some Great Cause, Some Great Decision, Offering Each The Bloom Or Blight, And The Choice Goes By Forever, ’twixt That Darkness And That Light.

The Child Is Not Mine As The First Was, I Cannot Sing It To Rest, I Cannot Lift It Up Fatherly And Bliss It Upon My Breast; Yet It Lies In My Little One's Cradle And Sits In My Little One's Chair, And The Light Of The Heaven She's Gone To Transfigures Its Golden Hair.

His Heart Kep' Goin' Pity-pat, But Hern Went Pity-zekle.