Can storied urn or animated bust / Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? / Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, / Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting full, but sweeter yet. The still small voice of gratitude.

July was a washout, a bust, whichever way you want to call it, unless you were a discount retailer,

How can I attain the Mansion of the Lord's Presence? How can I get Him to call me inside? You are the Great Merchant; You have millions of traders. Who is the benefactor? Who can take me to Him?

To write,” Marguerite Duras remarked, “is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,/ The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, / The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, / No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.