Nature, Like Us Is Sometimes Caught Without

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.

I Could Not Prove The Years Had Feet-/yet Confident They Run.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul, And Sings The Tune Without The Words, And Never Stops At All, And Sweetest In The Gale Is Heard; And Sore Must Be The Storm That Could Abash The Little Bird That Kept So Many Warm. I've Heard It In The Chilliest Land And On The Strangest Sea; Yet, Never, In Extremity, It Asked A Crumb Of Me.

If Your Nerve, Deny You - Go Above Your Nerve

Memory Is A Strange Bell—jubilee, And Knell.