The Air Is All Softness.

For Axioms In Philosophy Are Not Axioms Until They Are Proved Upon Our Pulses.

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu

I Almost Wish We Were Butterflies And Liv'd But Three Summer Days - Three Such Days With You I Could Fill With More Delight Than Fifty Common Years Could Ever Contain.

Here Are Sweet Peas, On Tiptoe For A Flight; With Wings Of Gentle Flush O'er Delicate White, And Taper Fingers Catching At All Things, To Bind Them All About With Tiny Rings.

Now A Soft Kiss - Aye, By That Kiss, I Vow An Endless Bliss.