There Are Few Sorrows, However

There Are Few Sorrows, However Poignant, In Which A Good Income Is Of No Avail.

Tree At My Window, Window Tree, My Sash Is Lowered When Night Comes On; But Let There Never Be Curtain Drawn Between You And Me.

One Of The Lies Would Make It Out That Nothing Ever Presents Itself Before Us Twice. Where Would We Be At Last If That Were So? Our Very Life Depends On Everything's Recurring Till We Answer From Within.

Haven't You Heard, Though, About The Ships Where War Has Found Them Out At Sea, About The Towns Where War Has Come Through Opening Clouds At Night With Droning Speed Further O'erhead Than All But Stars And Angels And Children In The Ships And In The Towns?

Any Work Of Art Must First Of All Tell A Story.