There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

So We'll Go No More A-roving So Late Into The Night, Though The Heart Still Be As Loving, And The Moon Still Be As Bright. For The Sword Outwears Its Sheath, And The Soul Outwears The Breast, And The Heart Must Pause To Breathe, And Love Itself Have Rest. Though The Night Was Made For Loving, And The Day Returns Too Soon, Yet We'll Go No More A-roving By The Light Of The Moon.

In Itself A Thought, A Slumbering Thought Is Capable Of Years; And Curdles A Long Life Into One Hour.

'tis Sweet To Know There Is An Eye Will Mark Our Coming, And Look Brighter When We Come.