There Is No Place In Which To

The Air Is Like A Butterfly With Frail Blue Wings. The Happy Earth Looks At The Sky And Sings.

The Only Reason A Road Is Good As Every Wanderer Knows / Is Just Because Of The Homes, The Homes, The Homes To Which One Goes

In A Wood They Call The Rouge Bouquet, There Is A New-made Grave Today, Built By Never A Spade Nor Pick, Yet Covered With Earth Ten Meteres Thick. There Lie Many Fighting Men. Dead In Their Youthful Prime.

Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People Die.

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.