Love Is Not All; It Is Not

The Heart Grows Weary After A Little Of What It Loved For A Little While.

Now The Autumn Shudders In The Rose's Root. Far And Wide The Ladders Lean Among The Fruit. Now The Autumn Clambers Up The Trellised Frame, And The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came. Brighter Than The Blossom On The Rose's Bough Sits The Wizened Orange, Bitter Berry Now; Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.

Strange How Few, After Alls Said And Done, The Things That Are Of Moment.

We Think-although Of Course, Now, We Very Seldom Clearly Think- That The Other Side Of War Is Peace.

Father, I Beg Of Thee A Little Task To Dignify My Days, 'tis All I Ask.