What Is Our Life But A Succession

There Are Places And Climates, Seasons And Hours, With Their Outward Circumstance, So Much In Harmony With Certain Impressions Of The Heart, That Nature And The Soul Of Man Appear To Be Parts Of One Vast Whole.

Ah! Let Us Love, My Love, For Time Is Heartless, Be Happy While You May!

Love Is The Enchanted Dawn Of Every Heart.

We Are Earth's Children, And Life Is The Same In Sap As In Blood; All That The Earth, Our Mother, Feels And Expresses To The Eye By Her Form And Aspect, In Melancholy Or In Splendor, Finds An Echo Within Us.

Music Is The Literature Of The Heart; It Commences Where Speech Ends.