Love Is Like A Rose, The Joy

Let Bygones Be Bygones.

Hope Dead Lives Nevermore, No, Not In Heaven.

Hope Is Like A Hairball Trembling From Its Birth.

The Violets Whisper From The Shade Which Their Own Leaves Have Made: Men Scent Our Fragrance On The Air, Yet Take No Heed Of Humble Lessons We Would Read.

It Is Not The Deed We Do Though The Deed Be Never So Fair, But The Love That The Dear Lord Looketh For, Hidden With Lovely Care In The Heart Of The Deed So Fair.