The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.
I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.
Till I loved I never lived.
Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.