But Beauty Vanishes; Beauty Passes; However Rare

An Hour's Terror Is Better Than A Lifetime Of Timidity.

After All, What Is Every Man? A Horde Of Ghosts - Like A Chinese Nest Of Boxes - Oaks That Were Acorns That Were Oaks. Death Lies Behind Us, Not In Front - In Our Ancestors, Back And Back Until.

It Was A Pity Thoughts Always Ran The Easiest Way, Like Water In Old Ditches.

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.

For Beauty With Sorrow Is A Burden Hard To Be Borne: The Evening Light On The Foam, And The Swans, There; That Music, Remote, Forlorn.