O Troubled Forms, O Early Love Unfortunate

Life In Itself / Is Nothing, / An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs. / It Is Not Enough That Yearly, Down This Hill, / April / Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

The Young Are So Old, They Are Born With Their Fingers Crossed.

It's Not Love's Going Hurts My Days But That It Went In Little Ways.

Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

You Are Loved. If So, What Else Matters?