Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what’s in a name?
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.