Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
The candid incline to surmise of late that the Christian faith proves false.
They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.
Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy?
The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.