Beauty Crowds Me Till I Die.

March Is The Month Of Expectation, The Things We Do Not Know, The Persons Of Prognostication Are Coming Now. We Try To Sham Becoming Firmness, But Pompous Joy Betrays Us, As His First Betrothal Betrays A Boy.

By Chivalries As Tiny, A Blossom, Or A Book, The Seeds Of Smiles Are Planted- Which Blossom In The Dark.

Drunkards Of Summer Are Quite As Frequent As Drunkards Of Wine.

To See Her Is A Picture- To Hear Her Is A Tune- To Know Her An Intemperance As Innocent As June- To Know Her Not-affliction- To Own Her For A Friend A Warmth As Near As If The The Sun Were Shining In Your Hand.

The Will Is Always Near, Dear, Though The Feet Vary.