April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom, holiday tables under the trees.
Virtue is its own revenge.
They who meet on an April night are forever lost in love, if there's moonlight all about and there's no moon above.
Say, it's only a paper moon, / Sailing over a cardboard sea.
Songs are the pulse of a nation's heart. A fever chart of its health.
All the heroes of tomorrow are the heretics of today.