Evil Alone Has Oil For Every Wheel.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare.

April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

Summer Set Lip To Earth's Bosom Bare, And Left The Flushed Print In A Poppy There. I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.

On And On Eternally Shall Your Altered Fluid Run, Bud And Bloom And Go To Seed; But Your Singing Days Are Done

Life Is A Quest And Love A Quarrel