I Really Don't Know Enough About The

Should I Not Hear, As I Lie Down In Dust, The Horns Of Glory Blowing Above My Burial?

[at A Musical Concert:] . . . The Music's Pure Algebra Of Enchantment.

The Hiss Was Now Becoming A Roar - The Whole World Was A Vast Moving Screen Of Snow - But Even Now It Said Peace, It Said Remoteness, It Said Cold, It Said Sleep.

My Heart Has Become As Hard As A City Street, The Horses Trample Upon It, It Sings Like Iron, All Day Long And All Night Long They Beat, They Ring Like The Hooves Of Time.

One Is Least Sure Of One's Self, Sometimes, When One Is Most Positive.