It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind,

Only The Road And The Dawn, The Sun, The Wind, And The Rain, And The Watch Fire Under Stars, And Sleep, And The Road Again.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries.

Death Opens Unknown Doors. It Is Most Grand To Die.

Life Is A Long Headache In A Noisy Street.