Faith Slips - And Laughs, And Rallies

Inebriate Of Air Am I, And Debauchee Of Dew, Reeling, Through Endless Summer Days, From Inns Of Molten Blue.

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.

To Multiply The Harbors Does Not Reduce The Sea.

The Things That Never Can Come Back, Are Several - Childhood - Some Forms Of Hope - The Dead.

After A Hundred Years Nobody Knows The Place, Agony, That Enacted There, Motionless As Peace.