Life Must Go On, Though Good Men

A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

And Her Voice Is A String Of Colored Beads, Or Steps Leading Into The Sea.

Life Isn't One Thing After Another, It's The Same Thing Over And Over.

It's Not Love's Going Hurts My Days But That It Went In Little Ways.

Not Poppy, Nor Mandrake, Nor All The Drowsy Syrups Of The World, Shall Ever Medicine Thee To That Sweet Sleep, Which Thou Owest Yesterday.