In dew descending on creation's Queen, / Thou gleamedst germlike on her golden hair.

But when his foe lyes prostrate on the plain, He sheaths his paws, uncurls his angry mane; And, pleas'd with bloudless honours of the day, Walks over, and disdains th' inglorious Prey.

The conversion of an old bungalow into a gingerbread office has brought to life a 13-year dream of mine.

The night ended with my mom bringing over a snuggie that she had made out of the breast cancer ribbon fabric.