Better The Illusions That Exalt Us Than

I Have Outlasted All Desire, My Dreams And I Have Grown Apart; My Grief Alone Is Left Entire, The Gleamings Of An Empty Heart. The Storms Of Ruthless Dispensation Have Struck My Flowery Garland Numb, I Live In Lonely Desolation And Wonder When My End Will Come. Thus On A Naked Tree-limb, Blasted By Tardy Winter's Whistling Chill, A Single Leaf Which Has Outlasted Its Season Will Be Trembling Still.

It's A Lucky Man, A Very Lucky Man, Who Is Committed To What He Believes, Who Has Stifled Intellectual Detachment And Can Relax In The Luxury Of His Emotions - Like A Tipsy Traveller Resting For The Night At Wayside Inn.

Love Passed, The Muse Appeared, The Weather Of Mind Got Clarity New-found; Now Free, I Once More Weave Together Emotion, Thought, And Magic Sound.

I Do Not Like Moscow Life. You Live Here Not As You Want To Live, But As Old Women Want You To.

A Deception That Elevates Us Is Dearer Than A Host Of Low Truths.