A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before

The Only People I Really Hate Are Servants. They're Not Really Human Beings At All.

I Make Bean Stalks, I'm A Builder, Like Yourself.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare. Let All Who Prate Of Beauty Hold Their Peace, And Lay Them Prone Upon The Earth And Cease To Ponder On Themselves, The While They Stare At Nothing, Intricately Drawn Nowhere.

It's Not Love's Going Hurts My Days But That It Went In Little Ways.