And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.

Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.

Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart. I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And I lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink.

Life must go on; I forget just why.

Life isn't all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.

Pour away despair and rinse the cup. Eat happiness like bread.