This Cruel Age Has Deflected Me.

Forgive Me, That I Manage Badly, Manage Badly But Live Gloriously, That I Leave Traces Of Myself In My Songs, That I Appeared To You In Waking Dreams.

We Thought: We're Poor, We Have Nothing, But When We Started Losing One After The Other So Each Day Became Remembrance Day, We Started Composing Poems About God's Great Generosity And Our Former Riches.

That Was When The Ones Who Smiled Were The Dead, Glad To Be At Rest.

The Triumphs Of A Mysterious Non-meeting Are Desolate Ones; Unspoken Phrases, Silent Words.

Flowers, Cold From The Dew, And Autumn's Approaching Breath, I Pluck For The Warm, Luxuriant Braids, Which Haven't Faded Yet. In Their Nights, Fragrantly Resinous, Entwined With Delightful Mystery, They Will Breathe In Her Springlike Extraordinary Beauty. But In A Whirlwind Of Sound And Fire, From Her Shing Head They Will Flutter And Fall—and Before Her They Will Die, Faintly Fragrant Still. And, Impelled By Faithful Longing, My Obedient Gaze Will Feast Upon Them— With A Reverent Hand, Love Will Gather Their Rotting Remains.