Where Thou Art, That Is Home.

Immortal Is An Ample Word When What We Need Is By, But When It Leaves Us For A Time, 'tis A Necessity.

Apparently With No Surprise To Any Happy Flower The Frost Beheads It At Its Play -- In Accidental Power -- The Blonde Assassin Passes On -- The Sun Proceeds Unmoved To Measure Off Another Day For An Approving God.

The Friend Anguish Reveals Is The Slowest Forgot.

Just A Turn Of The Doorknob, And There Lies Freedom.

Death Is A Supple Suitor, That Wins At Last. It Is A Stealthy Wooing; Conducted First By Pallid Innuendos And Dim Approach, But Brave At Last With Bugles.