There Is No Frigate Like

I Have A Bird In Spring Which For Myself Doth Sing - The Spring Decoys. And As The Summer Nears - And As The Rose Appears, Robin Is Gone. Yet Do I Not Repine Knowing That Bird Of Mine Though Flown - Learneth Beyond The Sea Melody New For Me And Will Return.

Lest I Should Be Old-fashioned, I'll Put A Trinket On.

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.

Forever Is Made Up Of Nows.

The Morning After Woe- Tis Frequently The Way- Surpasses All That Rose Before- For Utter Jubilee-.