Blown Roses Hold Their Sweetness To The

Great Souls Forgive Not Injuries Till Time Has Put Their Enemies Within Their Power, That They May Show Forgiveness Is Their Own.

That Gloomy Outside, Like A Rusty Chest, Contains The Shoring Treasure Of A Soul Resolved And Brave.

Ever A Glutton, At Another's Cost, But In Whose Kitchen Dwells Perpetual Frost.

When Misfortune Is Asleep, Let No One Wake Her.

…so When The Last And Dreadful Hour This Crumbling Pageant Shall Devour, The Trumpet Shall Be Heard On High, The Dead Shall Live, The Living Die, And Music Shall Untune The Sky