Every day is a fresh beginning. Every morn is the world made anew.

Every tear is answered by a blossom, Every sigh with songs and laughter blent, April-blooms upon the breezes toss them. April knows her own, and is content.

True love is not selfish. In time it accustoms itself to anything which secures happiness for its object.

All green and fair the summer lies, Just budded from the bud of spring, With tender blue of wistful skies, And winds that softly sing.

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung.

Few things are more aggravating than to be forgiven when one has done no wrong.

...this pause of rest, This morning hush before the sun.