The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With

Love Is A Smoke Made With The Fume Of Sighs.

I Have Lived Long Enough. My Way Of Life Is To Fall Into The Sere, The Yellow Leaf, And That Which Should Accompany Old Age, As Honor, Love, Obedience, Troops Of Friends I Must Not Look To Have.

Let The Doors Be Shut Upon Him, That He May Play The Fool No Where But In's Own House.

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

We Fail! But Screw Your Courage To The Sticking-place, And We'll Not Fail.