Sweet April's Tears, Dead On The Hem

Your Death And My Death Are Mainly Of Importance To Ourselves. The Black Plumes Will Be Stripped Off Our Hearses Within The Hour; Tears Will Dry, Hurt Hearts Close Again, Our Graves Grow Level With The Church-yard, And Although We Are Away, The World Wags On. It Does Not Miss Us; And Those Who Are Near Us, When The First Strangeness Of Vacancy Wears Off, Will Not Miss Us Much Either.

Good-humor And, Generosity Carry Day With The Popular Heart All The World Over.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.

A Thought May Be Very Commendable As A Thought, But I Value It Chiefly As A Window Through Which I Can Obtain Insight On The Thinker.