Ah, When Shall Come Love's Courage To

The Stillness Of October Gold Went Out Like Beauty From A Face.

For When A Woman Is Left Too Much Alone, Sooner Or Later She Begins To Think; And No Man Knows What Then She May Discover.

Pity Is Like A Knife, Sometimes, And It May Pierce One Who Employs It More Shrewdly Than The Victim It Would Save.

Are We No Greater Than The Noise We Make Along One Blind Atomic Pilgrimage Whereon By Crass Chance Billeted We Go Because Our Brains And Bones And Cartilage Will Have It So?

I Shall Have More To Say When I Am Dead.