... But The Rain Is Full Of

There Is No God. But It Does Not Matter. Man Is Enough.

Heap Not On This Mound Roses That She Loved So Well; Why Bewilder Her With Roses That She Cannot See Or Smell.

And Reaching Up My Hand To Try, I Screamed To Feel It Touch The Sky.

Strange How Few, After Alls Said And Done, The Things That Are Of Moment.

Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before