Bells are musics laughter.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.