Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

Wipe your glasses with what you know.

Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you?

She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.

Tenors get women by the score.