Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.

As the husband is, the wife is.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.

It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.