I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!

That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

Vinnie rocks her Garden and moans that God won't help her. I suppose he is too busy getting angry with the Wicked every day.

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.

Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.