She Is Happy Where She Lies With

God, I Can Push The Grass Apart And Lay My Finger On Thy Heart.

She Is Neither Pink Nor Pale, And She Never Will Be All Mine; She Learned Her Hands In A Fairy-tale, And Her Mouth On A Valentine. She Has More Hair Than She Needs; In The Sun ’tis A Woe To Me! And Her Voice Is A String Of Colored Beads, Or Steps Leading Into The Sea. She Loves Me All That She Can, And Her Ways To My Ways Resign; But She Was Not Made For Any Man, And She Never Will Be All Mine.

I Am Glad That I Paid So Little Attention To Good Advice; Had I Abided By It I Might Have Been Saved From Some Of My Most Valuable Mistakes.

Without Music I Should Wish To Die.

Life In Itself Is Nothing, An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs.