Luck's A Chance, But Trouble's Sure.

Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now Is Hung With Bloom Along The Bough, And Stands About The Woodland Ride Wearing White For Eastertide. Now, Of My Threescore Years And Ten, Twenty Will Not Come Again, And Take From Seventy Springs A Score, It Only Leaves Me Fifty More. And Since To Look At Things In Bloom Fifty Springs Are Little Room, About The Woodlands I Will Go To See The Cherry Hung With Snow.

And Silence Sounds No Worse Than Cheers After Earth Has Stopped The Ears.

Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now Is Hung With Bloom Along The Bough.

Nature, Not Content With Denying Him The Ability To Think, Has Endowed Him With The Ability To Write.

I Could No More Define Poetry Than A Terrier Can Define A Rat.