The Men Of The Past Had Convictions,

Round My Cradle Shimmered The Last Moonbeams Of The Eighteenth Century And The First Morning Rays Of The Nineteenth.

God Will Forgive Me. It's His Job.

Lyrical Poetry Is Much The Same An Every Age, As The Songs Of The Nightingales In Every Spring-time.

Mine Is A Most Peaceable Disposition. My Wishes Are: A Humble Cottage With A Thatched Roof, But A Good Bed, Good Food, The Freshest Milk And Butter, Flowers Before My Window, And A Few Fine Trees Before My Door; And If God Wants To Make My Happiness Complete, He Will Grant Me The Joy Of Seeing Some Six Or Seven Of My Enemies Hanging From Those Trees. Before Death I Shall, Moved In My Heart, Forgive Them All The Wrong They Did Me In Their Lifetime. One Must, It Is True, Forgive One's Enemies-- But Not Before They Have Been Hanged.

Music Is A Strange Thing. I Would Almost Say It Is A Miracle.