My Boat Is On The Shore, And

Oh, Nature's Noblest Gift, My Grey Goose Quill, Slave Of My Thoughts, Obedient To My Will, Torn From The Parent Bird To Form A Pen, That Mighty Instrument Of Little Men.

Sometimes We Are Less Unhappy In Being Deceived By Those We Love, Than In Being Undeceived By Them.

Tis Not On Youth's Smooth Cheek The Blush Alone, Which Fades So Fast, But The Tender Bloom Of Heart Is Gone, Ere Youth Itself Be Past.

And I Would Hear Yet Once Before I Perish The Voice Which Was My Music... Speak To Me!

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!