'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life

Out Of Chaos God Made A World, And Out Of High Passions Comes A People.

But Words Are Things, And A Small Drop Of Ink, Falling Like Dew, Upon A Thought, Produces That Which Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions, Think.

Glory, Like The Phoenix 'midst Her Fires, Exhales Her Odours, Blazes, And Expires.

Ada! Sole Daughter Of My House And Heart.

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.