Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From

A Glass Of Good Wine Is A Gracious Creature, And Reconciles Poor Mortality To Itself And That Is What Few Things Can Do.

I Cannot Tell How The Truth May Be; I Say The Tale As It Was Said To Me.

Loud O'er My Head Though Awful Thunders Roll, And Vivid Lightnings Flash From Pole To Pole, Yet 'tis Thy Voice, My God, That Bids Them Fly, Thy Arm Directs Those Lightnings Through The Sky. Then Let The Good Thy Mighty Name Revere, And Hardened Sinners Thy Just Vengeance Fear.

The Way Was Long, The Wind Was Cold, The Minstrel Was Infirm And Old; His Withered Cheek, And Tresses Gray, Seemed To Have Know A Better Day.

Good Even, Good Fair Moon, Good Even To Thee. I Prithee, Dear Moon, Now Show To Me The Form And The Features, The Speech And Degree, Of The Man That True Lover Of Mine Shall Be.