Full Lasting Is The Song,

Swift Doth Young Love Flee, And We Stand Wakened, Shivering From Our Dream.

Sunrays, Leaning On Our Southern Hills And Lighting Wild Cloud-mountains That Drag The Hills Along, Oft Ends The Day Of Your Shifting Brilliant Laughter Chill As A Dull Face Frowning On A Song. Ay, But Shows The South-west A Ripple-feathered Bosom Blown To Silver While The Clouds Are Shaken And Ascend Scaling The Mid-heavens As They Stream, There Comes A Sunset Rich, Deep Like Love In Beauty Without End.

God's Rarest Blessing Is, After All, A Good Woman!

Poetry Is Talking On Tiptoe.

There Is Nothing The Body Suffers Which The Soul May Not Profit By.