There Is Peace In The Swamp, Though

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.

Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

The Only Sure Thing About Luck Is That It Will Change.

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

A Bird In The Hand Is A Certainty, But A Bird In The Bush May Sing.