Moustache.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. 

William Wordsworth 

Peaches.

She is more precious than rubies, and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her. Length of days is in her right hand, and in her left hand riches and honour. 

Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. 

Solomon 

A single grain.

Renew my will from day to day

Blend it with thine, and take away

All that now makes it hard to say.

Thy will be done.

- Charlotte Elliott

Jasminum

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away, for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone: the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come...

- The song of Solomon 

Recondite.

Unknown to whom the depth of the ocean

No oxygen to be spoken. 

> wolf