For She Doth Make My Veins And

There Is No Greater Sorrow Than To Recall Happiness In Times Of Misery.

Consider That This Day Ne'er Dawns Again.

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

Be As A Tower Firmly Set; Shakes Not Its Top For Any Blast That Blows.

No One Thinks Of How Much Blood It Costs.