Maxioms by John Greenleaf Whittier
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses read more
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead.
And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden read more
And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!
Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress-trees
Who, hopeless, lays his dead read more
Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress-trees
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play!
As a small businessperson, you have no greater leverage than the truth.
As a small businessperson, you have no greater leverage than the truth.
Clothe with life the weak intent, let me be the thing I meant.
Clothe with life the weak intent, let me be the thing I meant.
