Where's The Need Of Singing Now?

No Matter What We Are, And What We Sing, Time Finds A Withered Leaf In Every Laurel

I Cannot Find My Way: There Is No Star In All The Shrouded Heavens Anywhere

Friends: People Who Borrow My Books And Set Wet Glasses On Them.

Pity Is Like A Knife, Sometimes, And It May Pierce One Who Employs It More Shrewdly Than The Victim It Would Save.

And Thus We All Are Nighing The Truth We Fear To Know: Death Will End Our Crying For Friends That Come And Go.