The True Poet Dreams Being Awake.

Oft In The Stilly Night, Ere Slumber's Chain Has Bound Me, Fond Memory Brings The Light Of Other Days Around Me; The Smiles, The Tears, Of Boyhood's Years, The Words Of Love Then Spoken; The Eyes That Shone Now Dimmed And Gone, The Cheerful Hearts Now Broken.

There Are Like To Be Short Graces Where The Devil Plays Host.

His Voice Was The Most Obnoxious Squeak I Ever Was Tormented With.

We Were Happier When We Were Poorer, But We Were Also Younger.

Man, While He Loves, Is Never Quite Depraved.