A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

Summer Set Lip To Earth's Bosom Bare, And Left The Flushed Print In A Poppy There. I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.

We Think-although Of Course, Now, We Very Seldom Clearly Think- That The Other Side Of War Is Peace.

A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart, And Not The Full Four Seasons Of The Year; And You Must Welcome From Another Part Such Noble Moods As Are Not Mine, My Dear. No Gracious Weight Of Golden Fruits To Sell Have I, Nor Any Wise And Wintry Thing; And I Have Loved You All Too Long And Well To Carry Still The High Sweet Breast Of Spring. Wherefore I Say: O Love, As Summer Goes, I Must Be Gone, Steal Forth With Silent Drums, That You May Hail Anew The Bird And Rose When I Come Back To You, As Summer Comes. Else Will You Seek, At Some Not Distant Time, Even Your Summer In Another Clime.

Life Is A Quest And Love A Quarrel