And That Dismal Cry Rose Slowly And

World's Use Is Cold, World's Love Is Vain, World's Cruelty Is Bitter Bane; But Is Not The Fruit Of Pain.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways.

For Me, My Heart, That Erst Did Go Most Like A Tired Child At A Show, That Sees Through Tears The Mummers Leap, Would Now Its Wearied Vision Close, Would Childlike On His Love Repose, Who Giveth His Beloved, Sleep.

Whoso Loves, Believes In The Impossible

Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.