Pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed.
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.--Robert Burns
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.
A mind that is conscious of its integrity scorns to say more than it means to perform.
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
Suspense is worst than disappointment.