Words To Deeds Cold Breath Gives.

They Have Been At A Great Feast Of Languages, And Stolen The Scraps.

When Clouds Are Seen Wise Men Put On Their Cloaks; When Great Leaves Fall Then Winter Is At Hand.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

Thou Unfit For Any Place But Hell.

I Kissed Thee Ere I Killed Thee. No Way But This, Killing Myself, To Die Upon A Kiss.