We Make Trifles Of Terrors, Ensconcing Ourselves

Grief Makes One Hour Ten.

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate... When In Eternal Lines To Time Thou Growst So Long As Men Can Breathe Or Eyes Can See, So Long Lives This, And This Gives Life To Thee.

Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers We'll Hand In Hand.

Time Doth Transfix The Flourish Set On Youth And Delves The Parallels In Beauty's Brow.