My Candle Burns At Both Ends

Strange How Few, After Alls Said And Done, The Things That Are Of Moment.

There Is No Shelter In You Anywhere.

Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn What The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

Under My Head Till Morning; But The Rain, Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh, Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply.

April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.