I Have Need To Busy My Heart

Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire Of Watching For You; And Swing Me Suddenly Into The Shade And Loneliness And Mire Of The Last Land!

Youth Is Stranger Than Fiction.

Blow Out, You Bugles, Over The Rich Dead! There's None Of These So Lonely And Poor Of Old, But, Dying, Has Made Us Rarer Gifts Than Gold.

I Thought When Love For You Died, I Should Die. It's Dead. Alone, Most Strangely, I Live On.

I Have A Thousand Images Of You In An Hour; All Different And All Coming Back To The Same. I Think Of You Once Against A Sky Line: And On The Hill That Sunday Morning. The Light And The Shadow And Quietness And The Rain And The Wood. And You. Your Arms And Lips And Hair And Shoulders And Voice - You.