The Bitter Past, More Welcome Is The

All The Perfumes Of Arabia Will Not Sweeten This Little Hand! Oh, Oh, Oh!

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

This Is A Gift That I Have, Simple, Simple; A Foolish Extravagant Spirit Full Of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects, Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions; These Are Begot In The Ventricle Of Memory, Nourished In The Womb Of Pia Mater, And Delivered Upon The Mellowing Of Occasion.

Let Each Man Do His Best.

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.