Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of

May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.

To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The Stars. Grant That I Know.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

I Know That A Creed Is The Shell Of A Lie.

Happiness: We Rarely Feel It. I Would Buy It, Beg It, Steal It, Pay In Coins Of Dripping Blood For This One Transcendent Good.