The Longest Absence Is Less Perilous To

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart, And Not The Full Four Seasons Of The Year.

Death Devours All Lovely Things.

Night Falls Fast. Today Is In The Past. Blown From The Dark Hill Hither To My Door Three Flakes, Then Four Arrive, Then Many More.

That Is My Being, The Madness Of An Unaccustomed Mood.

I Have Loved Badly, Loved The Great Too Soon, Withdrawn My Words Too Late; And Eaten In An Echoing Hall Alone And From A Chipped Plate The Words That I Withdrew Too Late.