Each Departed Friend Is A Magnet That

A Sky Full Of Silent Suns.

The Look Of A King Is Itself A Deed.

Our Birthdays Are Feathers In The Broad Wing Of Time.

Universal Love Is A Glove Without Fingers, Which Fits All Bands Alike And None Closely; But True Affection Is Like A Glove With Fingers, Which Fits One Hand Only, And Sits Close To That One.

Because The Heart Beats Under A Covering Of Hair, Of Fur, Feathers, Or Wings, It Is, For That Reason, To Be Of No Account?