I Wonder More And More Just Where

Do You Hear The Children Singing?

No Matter What We Are, And What We Sing, Time Finds A Withered Leaf In Every Laurel

Love Must Have Wings To Fly Away From Love, And To Fly Back Again.

Language That Tells Us, Through A More Or Less Emotional Reaction, Something That Can Not Be Said.

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.