Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A

The Difficult Part Of Love Is Being Selfish Enough.

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

... Everyone Young Going Down The Long Slide To Happiness, Endlessly.

But Superstition, Like Belief, Must Die.

Spring, Of All Seasons Most Gratuitous, Is Fold Of Untaught Flower, Is Race Of Water, Is Earth's Most Multiple, Excited Daughter; And Those She Has Least Use For See Her Best, Their Paths Grown Craven And Circuitous, Their Visions Mountain-clear, Their Needs Immodest.