The Violets Prattle And Titter,

In Vain Would I Seek To Discover Why Sad And Mournful Am I, My Thoughts Without Ceasing Brood Over A Tale Of The Time Gone By.

Oh Fair, Oh Sweet And Holy As Dew At Morning Tide, I Gaze On Thee, And Yearnings, Sad In My Bosom Hide.

A Pine Tree Standeth Lonely In The North On An Upland Bare; It Standeth Whitely Shrouded With Snow, And Sleepeth There. It Dreameth Of A Palm Tree Which Far In The East Alone, In The Mournful Silence Standeth On Its Ridge Of Burning Stone.

Newness Hath An Evanescent Beauty.

It Is A Common Phenomenon That Just The Prettiest Girls Find It So Difficult To Get A Man.