There Is No Music Unless The Drum

All In Green Went My Love Of Riding On A Great Horse Of Gold Into The Silver Dawn.

I Remember We All Cried Like The Missouri When My Uncle Sol's Coffin Lurched Because Somebody Pressed A Button (and Down Went My Uncle Sol And Started A Worm Farm)

Deeds Cannot Dream What Dreams Can Do

All Which Isn't Singing Is Mere Talking... And All Talking's To Oneself Alone But The Very Song Of (as Mountains Feel And Lovers) Singing Is Silence.

Nobody Else Can Be Alive For You; Nor Can You Be Alive For Anybody Else.