Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.
Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.
The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
I see thee better in the dark I do not need a light.
The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --