These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.