As Leaves On The Trees, Such Is

Now From His Breast Into The Eyes The Ache Of Longing Mounted, And He Wept At Last, His Dear Wife, Clear And Faithful, In His Arms, Longed For As The Sunwarmed Earth Is Longed For By A Swimmer Spent In Rough Water Where His Ship Went Down Under Poseidon's Blows, Gale Winds And Tons Of Sea. Few Men Can Keep Alive Through A Big Serf To Crawl, Clotted With Brine, On Kindly Beaches In Joy, In Joy, Knowing The Abyss Behind: And So She Too Rejoiced, Her Gaze Upon Her Husband, Her White Arms Round Him Pressed As Though Forever.

We Men Are Wretched Things.

This Year I Invested In Pumpkins. They've Been Going Up The Whole Month Of October And I Got A Feeling They're Going To Peak Right Around January. Then Bang! That's When I'll Cash In.

It Is Not Right To Exult Over Slain Men.

I Detest The Man Who Hides On Thing In The Depths Of His Heart And Speaks Forth Another.