Maxioms by Alexander Smith
The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not read more
We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
Sweet April's tears,
Dead on the hem of May.
Sweet April's tears,
Dead on the hem of May.
Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in
the recognition.
Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in
the recognition.
