What Lovely Things Thy Hand Hath Made.

As Soon As They're Out Of Your Sight, You Are Out Of Their Mind.

Very Old Are The Woods; And The Buds That Break Out Of The Brier's Boughs, When March Winds Wake, So Old With Their Beauty Are-- Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For Flowers.

Once A Man Strays Out Of The Common Herd, He's More Likely To Meet Wolves In The Thickets Than Angels.

What A Haunting, Inescapable Riddle Life Was.