Your Name Hangs In My Heart Like

A Pessimist Is A Man Who Tells The Truth Prematurely.

My Soul, Be Satisfied With Flowers, With Fruit, With Weeds Even; But Gather Them In The One Garden You May Call Your Own.

No, In Fairy Tales When To The Ill-starred Prince The Lady Says 'i Love You!' All His Ugliness Fades Fast But I Remain The Same, Up To The Last!

Roxane: His Face Is Like Yours, Burning With Spirit And Imagination. He Is Proud And Noble And Young And Fearless And Beautiful- Cyrano:(losing All His Colour.) Beautiful! Roxane: Yes. What's Wrong? Cyrano: With Me? Nothing. It's Only... Only... (displaying His Bandaged Hand, With A Little Smile.) This Fatal Wound.

Where Lurk Sweet Echoes Of The Dear Homevoices, Each Note Of Which Calls Like A Little Sister, Those Airs Slow, Slow Ascending, As The Smokewreaths Rise From The Hearthstones Of Our Native Hamlets Cyrano Act 5.