You Can Stay Young As Long As

That It Will Never Come Again Is What Makes Life Sweet.

Forever Is Comprised Of Nows.

A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest, I've Heard The Hunter Tell; 'tis But The Ecstasy Of Death, And Then The Brake Is Still. The Smitten Rock That Gushes, The Trampled Steel That Springs,, A Cheek Is Always Redder Just Where The Hectic Stings Mirth Is Mail Of Anguish, In Which Its Cautious Arm Lest Anybody Spy The Blood And, You're Hurt Exclaim.

A Word Is Dead When It Is Said, Some Say. I Say It Just Begins To Live That Day.

A Little Madness In The Spring Is Wholesome Even For The King.