Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest; A

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.

We Turn To Dust, And All Our Mightiest Works Die Too.

He That Runs May Read.

I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.i Must Finish My Journey Alone,never Hear The Sweet Music Of Speech;i Start At The Sound Of My Own.

Time, As He Passes Us, Has A Dove's Wing, Unsoil'd, And Swift, And Of A Silken Sound.