It Is Easy To Flatter; It Is

Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The Evening Dew, And Does Not Patter Down Like A Hailstorm.

Ah! The Seasons Of Love Roll Not Backward But Onward, Downward Forever.

Because The Heart Beats Under A Covering Of Hair, Of Fur, Feathers, Or Wings, It Is, For That Reason, To Be Of No Account?

There Are Souls In This World Which Have The Gift Of Finding Joy Everywhere And Of Leaving It Behind Them When They Go.

Every Man Regards His Own Life As The New Year's Eve Of Time.