Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

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

O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

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

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

When I am alone I am happy.

Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge