Good Strong Thick Stupefying Incense-smoke!

You Never Know What Life Means Till You Die; Even Throughout Life, Tis Death That Makes Life Live.

And I Have Written Three Books On The Soul, Proving Absurd All Written Hitherto, And Putting Us To Ignorance Again.

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

O World, As God Has Made It! All Is Beauty.

Life Is An Empty Dream.