Love Lives With Nature, Not With Lust.

The Thorn Tree Just Began To Bud And Greening Stained The Sheltering Hedge, An Many A Violet Beside The Wood Peeped Blue Between The Withered Sedge; The Sun Gleamed Warm The Bank Beside, 'twas Pleasant Wandering Out A While Neath Nestling Bush To Lonely Hide, Or Bend A Musings O'er A Stile.

I Am Gennerally Understood Tho I Do Not Use That Awkward Squad Of Pointings Called Commas Colons Semicolons Etc.

My Fears Are Agitated To An Extreme Degree And The Dread Of Death Involves Me In A Stupor Of Chilling Indisposition.

Language Has Not The Power To Speak What Love Indites: The Soul Lies Buried In The Ink That Writes.

I Was Byron And Shakespeare Formerly.