In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

Art Is The Most Passionate Orgy Within Man's Grasp.

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.

Love Built On Beauty, Soon As Beauty, Dies.

I Find No Abhorring In My Appetite.