I Hate People But I Love Gatherings.

No One But Night, With Tears On Her Dark Face, Watches Beside Me In This Windy Place.

How Strange A Thing Is Death, Bringing To His Knees, Bringing To His Antlers The Buck In The Snow . . . Life, Looking Out Attentive From The Eyes Of The Doe.

Time Can Make Soft That Iron Wood.

If Ever I Said In Grief Or Pride, I'd Tired Of Honest Things, I Lied.

I Am Waylaid By Beauty.