Though An Angel Should Write, Still 'tis

It Is Not While Beauty And Youth Are Thine Own And Thy Cheeks Unprofaned By A Tear That The Ferver And Faith Of A Soul Can Be Known To Which Time Will But Make Thee More Dear No The Heart That Has Truly Loved Never Forgets But As Truly Loves On To The Close As The Sunflower Turns On Her God When He Sets The Same Look Which She'd Turned When He Rose.

You May Break, You May Shatter The Vase, If You Will, But The Scent Of The Roses Will Hang Round It Still.

The Devil...the Prowde Spirite...cannot Endure To Be Mocked.

Go Where We May, Rest Where We Will, Eternal London Haunts Us Still.

Like Ships That Have Gone Down At Sea, When Heaven Was All Tranquillity.