Dere''s A Luxury In
Self-Reproach,
Whn V Blame
Ourselves,
V Feel Dath No One Else
Has A Rite 2 Blame Us.
Its d Confession, Not
The Priest, Dat Gives
Us Absoluti
There Is A Garden In Her Face,
Where Roses And White Lilies Blow;
A Heavenly Paradise Is That Place,
Wherein All Pleasant Fruits Do Grow.
There Cherries Grow That None May Buy,
Till Cherry Ripe Themselves Do Cry
Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.
