If There Wasn't Death, I Think You

I Love People, But I Love The Thought And Memory Of Them Just As Much.

Nothing Is More Wistful Than The Scent Of Lilac, Nor More Robust Than Its Woody Stalk, For We Must Remember That It Is A Tree As Well As A Flower, We Must Try Not To Forget This.

Oh, No No No, It Was Too Cold Always (still The Dead One Lay Moaning) I Was Much Too Far Out All My Life And Not Waving But Drowning.

As Nature Is Always Careless And Indifferent Who Sees, Who Steps, Means Nothing And This Is Pretty.

Who Is This That Comes In Grandeur, Coming From The Blazing East? This Is He We Had Not Thought Of, This Is He The Airy Christ.