Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That

Till It Has Loved, No Man Or Woman Can Become Itself.

The Things Of Which We Want The Proof Are Those We Know The Best.

Unto A Broken Heart No Other One May Go Without The High Prerogative Itself Hath Suffered Too.

Here Is A Little Forest Whose Leaf Is Ever Green; Here Is A Brighter Garden, Where Not A Frost Has Been; In Its Unfading Flowers I Hear The Bright Bee Hum; Prithee, My Brother, Into My Garden Come!

Good Times Are Always Mutual; That Is What Makes Good Times.