The Tree Is A Slow,

She Cast Her Fragrance And Her Radiance Over Me. I Ought Never To Have Run Away From Her... I Ought To Have Guessed All The Affection That Lay Behind Her Poor Little Stratagems. Flowers Are So Inconsistent! But I Was Too Young To Know How To Love Her.

Nobody Grasped You By The Shoulder While There Was Still Time. Now The Clay Of Which You Were Shaped Has Dried And Hardened, And Naught In You Will Ever Awaken The Sleeping Musician, The Poet, The Asronomer That Possibly Inhabited You In The Beginning.

When One Wishes To Play The Wit, He Sometimes Wander A Little From The Truth.

In Giving You Are Throwing A Bridge Across The Chasm Of Your Solitude.

Perfection Is Not When There Is No More To Add, But No More To Take Away.