Such A Blush In The Midst Of

Apothegms Form A Short Cut To Much Knowledge.

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery Spray.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

I Love Thee - I Love Thee, 'tis All That I Can Say, It Is My Vision In The Night, My Dreaming In The Day.