'Healing,' Papa would tell me, 'is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.'
Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse.
The friends who met here and embraced are gone, Each to his own mistake.
The theater has never been any good since the actors became gentlemen.
Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm.