Let Us Think Less Of Men And

The Truth Of Truths Is Love.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.

Dewdrops, Nature's Tears, Which She Sheds In Her Own Breast For The Fair Which Die. The Sun Insists On Gladness; But At Night, When He Is Gone, Poor Nature Loves To Weep.

Music Tells No Truths.

Men Might Be Better If We Better Deemed Of Them.