Christmas Is The Day That Holds All

My Heart Like Moon-charmed Waters, All Unrest.

Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They Are An Expensive Brood To Rear. They Eat Up Everything, And Are Always Lean When Brought To Market.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.

Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem Of May.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.