My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.

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.

No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.

Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.

What should I be but just what I am?