Welcome As The Flowers In May.

Thou And I Are But The Blind Instruments Of Some Irresistible Fatality, That Hurries Us Along, Like Goodly Vessels Driving Before The Storm, Which Are Dashed Against Each Other, And So Perish.

Nothing Is More Completely The Child Of Art Than A Garden.

I'll Dream No More--by Mainly Mind Not Even In Sleep Is Well Resigned. My Midnight Orisons Said O'er, I'll Turn To Rest And Dream No More.

Earth Walks On Earth, Glittering In Gold; Earth Goes To Earth, Sooner Than It Wold; Earth Builds On Earth, Palaces And Towers; Earth Says To Earth, Soon, All Shall Be Ours.

Unless A Tree Has Borne Blossoms In Spring, You Will Vainly Look For Fruit On It In Autumn.