These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.

It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.