The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience; sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?

The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.

The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.