Her Soul Trembled On Her Lips Like

There Is In Every Village A Torch - The Teacher; And An Extinguisher - The Priest.

In Every Cradle Decked With Rosy Wreath Lurk Germs Of Death.

Rhyme, That Enslaved Queen, That Supreme Charm Of Our Poetry, That Creator Of Our Meter.

Even The Darkest Night Will End And The Sun Will Rise.

The Realities Of Life Do Not Allow Themselves To Be Forgotten.