It Is The Lava Of The Imagination

Adversity Is The First Path To Truth.

No Hand Can Make The Clock Strike For Me The Hours That Are Passed.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

The Devil Hath Not, In All His Quiver's Choice, An Arrow For The Heart Like A Sweet Voice.

So We'll Go No More A-roving So Late Into The Night, Though The Heart Still Be As Loving, And The Moon Still Be As Bright. For The Sword Outwears Its Sheath, And The Soul Outwears The Breast, And The Heart Must Pause To Breathe, And Love Itself Have Rest. Though The Night Was Made For Loving, And The Day Returns Too Soon, Yet We'll Go No More A-roving By The Light Of The Moon.