None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.
Virtue's guard is labor; ease, her sleep.
Lost is the time that you don't spend for love.
Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.
As shaking terrors from his blazing hair, a sanguine comet gleams through dusky air.
Love is when you don't have to be with another person to touch their heart!