Oft Have I Heard That Grief Softens

Well, Every One Can Master A Grief But He That Has It.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

Come The Three Corners Of The World In Arms, And We Shall Shock Them.

Or Art Thou But / A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, / Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.