Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
There is no shelter in you anywhere.