information is not knowledge
knowledge is not wisdom
wisdom is not love
love is not music
music is everything
…frank zappaÂ
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Carlson Craft Paper& Presents for the Social Butterfly
Shop Online at Party Impressions
Paper & Presents for the Social Butterfly by Carlson Craft
Phone: 407-696-7660 - Fax: 407-696-7660 - Email: sales@partyimpression.com
Copyright © Party Impressions 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Birchcraft Wedding Invitations
Party Impressions
Contemporary, Elegant and Traditional Wedding Invitations
Phone: 407-696-7660 - Fax: 407-696-7660 - Email: sales@partyimpression.com
Copyright © Party Impressions 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
In Your Sorrow
We mourn with you.
We mourn for you.
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Thank You 1
Thanks for all you do and being so sweet.
You are the wings beneath my feet
Your best friend.
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For You All
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
By Wm ShakeapeareÂ
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I Miss You
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
From Sonnet LX, Wm Shakespeare
I Miss You
Love
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All My Love
Take all my loves, my love, yes, take them all;
What have you then more than you had before?
No love, my love, that you may true love call;
All mine was yours before you had this more.
From Sonnet XL, Wm. Shakespeare
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Sonnet XVIII
Shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
You are more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease has all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed:
But your eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair you ow’st,
Nor shall death brag you wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time you grow’st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet XVIII Wm. Shakespeare (mostly)
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My love is as a fever
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
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