It Is In Pardoning That We Are

Affliction May One Day Smile Again; And Till Then, Sit Thee Down, Sorrow!.

He Wears The Rose Of Youth Upon Him.

I Bear A Charmed Life, Which Must Not Yield To One Of Woman Born.

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.