She's Good, Being Gone.

Piece Out Our Imperfections With Your Thoughts.

What Should We Speak Of When We Are Old As You? When We Shall Hear The Rain And Wind Beat Dark December? How, In This Our Pinching Cave, Shall We Discourse The Freezing Hours Away?

This Night I Hold An Old Accustomed Feast, Whereto I Have Invited Many A Guest, Such As I Love; And You Among The Store, One More, Most Welcome, Makes My Number More.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

Let Him Smell His Way To Dover!