No Scene Of Mortal Life But Teems

Meat Eaten Without Either Mirth Or Music Is Ill Of Digestion.

When Thinking About Companions Gone, We Feel Ourselves Doubly Alone.

Welcome As The Flowers In May.

Good Even, Good Fair Moon, Good Even To Thee. I Prithee, Dear Moon, Now Show To Me The Form And The Features, The Speech And Degree, Of The Man That True Lover Of Mine Shall Be.

What Skilful Limner E'er Would Choose To Paint The Rainbow's Varying Hues, Unless To Mortal It Were Given To Dip His Brush In Dyes Of Heaven?