All Play And No Work

A Song Fluttered Down In The Form Of A Dove, And It Bore Me A Message, The One Word-love!

The Age Is Materialistic. Verse Isn't. I Must Be With The Age, So I Am Writing Prose.

I Know What The Caged Bird Feels, Alas!

It's All A Farce, - These Tales They Tell About The Breezes Sighing, And Moans Astir O'er Field And Dell, Because The Year Is Dying.

We Wear The Mask That Grins And Lies.