[Soaring Feather]

Good morning, Colonel.

The Burial of Love
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Shall hollow-hearted apathy,
The cruellest form of perfect scorn,
With languor of most hateful smiles,
For ever write,
In the withered light
Of the tearless eye,
And epitaph that all may spy?
No! sooner she herself shall die.

Wow these lines cut like a knife.

[Colonel_Flagg]

Hello, feather! Yes, they do .. he certainly knew his stuff, didn't he?