If Youth Is A Defect, It Is

What Can The Dove Of Jesus Give You Now But Wisdom, Exile? Stand And Live, The Dove Has Brought An Olive Branch To Eat.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.