With Womankind, The Less We Love Them,

Thus People--so It Seems To Me-- Become Good Friends From Sheer Ennui.

I Have Outlasted All Desire, My Dreams And I Have Grown Apart; My Grief Alone Is Left Entire, The Gleamings Of An Empty Heart. The Storms Of Ruthless Dispensation Have Struck My Flowery Garland Numb, I Live In Lonely Desolation And Wonder When My End Will Come. Thus On A Naked Tree-limb, Blasted By Tardy Winter's Whistling Chill, A Single Leaf Which Has Outlasted Its Season Will Be Trembling Still.

I Want To Understand You, I Study Your Obscure Language.

Fearing No Insult, Asking For No Crown, Receive With Indifference Both Flattery And Slander, And Do Not Argue With A Fool.

Sad That Our Finest Aspiration, Our Freshest Dreams And Meditations, In Swift Succession Should Decay, Like Autumn Leaves That Rot Away.