Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be; that what we plan we build

But alas for the dreams that round us play! / For the plans of mortal making! / And alas for the false and fickle day / That looked so fair at waking!

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.

I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.

Never is true love blind, but rather brings an added light.

For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.