For Beauty's Tears Are Lovelier

What Millions Died That Caesar Might Be Great!

Our Land, The First Garden Of Liberty's Tree-- It Has Been, And Shall Be, The Land Of The Free.

On The Green Banks Of Shannon, When Sheelah Was Nigh, No Blithe Irish Lad Was So Happy As I, No Harp Like My Own Could So Cheerily Play, And Wherever I Went Was My Poor Dog Tray.

For There No Yew Nor Cypress Spread Their Glom But Roses Blossom'd Each Rustic Tomb.

The Smaller Your Reality, The More Convinced You Are That You Know Everything.