Don't Send A Poet To London.

With The Rose The Butterfly's Deep In Love, A Thousand Times Hovering Round; But Round Himself, All Tender Like Gold, The Sun's Sweet Ray Is Hovering Found.

Sweet May Hath Come To Love Us, Flowers, Trees, Their Blossoms Don; And Through The Blue Heavens Above Us The Very Clouds Move On.

It Is Only Kindred Griefs That Draw Forth Our Tears, And Each Weeps Really For Himself.

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.

God Will Forgive Me. It's His Job.