Love Can Do All But Raise The

The Lovely Flowers Embarrass Me. They Make Me Regret I Am Not A Bee.

The Possible's Slow Fuse Is Lit By The Imagination.

I Dwell In Possibility A Fairer House Than Prose More Numerous Of Windows Superior — For Doors.

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.

His Mind Of Man, A Secret Makes I Meet Him With A Start He Carries A Circumference In Which I Have No Part.