I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore.

Music my rampart, and my only one.

He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.

Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written.

She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.

I dread no more the first white in my hair, Or even age itself, the easy shoe, The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: Time, doing this to me, may alter too My anguish, into something I can bear

It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over.