Bryan Procter

The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord. ”

There's not a wind but whispers of thy name; And not a flow'r that grows beneath the moon, But in its hues and fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love. ”

O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee! ”

Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, - as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! ”

Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments. ”

Death is the tyrant of the imagination. ”