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.

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

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak.

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.

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.

Night falls fast. Today is in the past.

A grave is such a quiet place.