The Moon Looks Upon Many

When Our Thoughts Are Born, Though They Be Good And Humble, One Should Mind How They Are Reared, Or Some Will Go Astray And Shame Their Mother.

Crowds Of Bees Are Giddy With Clover Crowds Of Grasshoppers Skip At Our Feet, Crowds Of Larks At Their Matins Hang Over, Thanking The Lord For A Life So Sweet.

There Is But Halting For The Wearied Foot; The Better Way Is Hidden. Faith Hath Failed; One Stronger Far Than Reason Mastered Her. It Is Not Reason Makes Faith Hard, But Life.

O Woman! Thou Wert Fashioned To Beguile: So Have All Sages Said, All Poets Sung.

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