April, the angel of the months, the young love of the year.
I cannot abide the Mr. and Mrs. Noah attitude towards marriage; the animals went in two by two, forever stuck together with glue.
Flowers really do intoxicate me.
I worshipped dead men for their strength, Forgetting I was strong.
There's no beginning to the farmer's year, / Only recurrent patterns on a scroll / Unwinding...
I suppose the pleasure of country life lies really in the eternally renewed evidences of the determination to live.