Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste.

The Summer Morn Is Bright And Fresh, The Birds Are Darting By. As If They Loved To Breast The Breeze That Sweeps The Cool Clear Sky.

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

Music Is Not Merely A Study, It Is An Entertainment; Wherever There Is Music There Is A Throng Of Listeners.

Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.