When Sparrows Build And The Leaves Break

You Moon, Have You Done Something Wrong In Heaven / That God Has Hidden Your Face?

Quoth The Ocean, "dawn! O Fairest, Clearest, Touch Me With Thy Golden Fingers Bland; For I Have No Smile Till Thou Appearest For The Lovely Land.

How Gently Rock Yon Poplars High Against The Reach Of Primrose Sky With Heaven's Pale Candles Stored.

I Don't Want To Die. But I Want To Be Dead.

And Old Affront Will Stir The Heart Through Years Of Rankling Pain.