You Must Not Think That We Are

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.

If Wishes Would Prevail With Me, My Purpose Should Not Fail With Me.

Misery Acquaints A Man With Strange Bedfellows.

Let Never Day Nor Night Unhallowed Pass, But Still Remember What The Lord Hath Done.

No Place Indeed Should Murder Sanctuarize; Revenge Should Have No Bounds.