Gone Are The Birds That Were Our

More Hearts Are Breaking In This World Of Ours Than One Would Say. In Distant Villages And Solitudes Remote, Where Winds Have Wafted The Barbed Seeds Of Love, Or Birds Of Passage Scattered Them In Their Flight, Do They Take Root, And Grow In Silence, And In Silence Perish.

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

I Have A Passion For Ballad. . . . They Are The Gypsy Children Of Song, Born Under Green Hedgerows In The Leafy Lanes And Bypaths Of Literature,--in The Genial Summertime.

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

Our Pleasures And Our Discontents, Are Rounds By Which We May Ascend.