Longing Alone Is Singer To The Lute.

Spring To What Purpose, April, Do You Return Again? Beauty Is Not Enough. You Can No Longer Quiet Me With The Redness Of Little Leaves Opening Stickily. I Know What I Know. The Sun Is Hot On My Neck As I Observe The Spikes Of The Crocus. The Smell Of The Earth Is Good. It Is Apparent That There Is No Death. But What Does That Signify? Not Only Under Ground Are The Brains Of Men Eaten By Maggots. Life In Itself Is Nothing, An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs. It Is Not Enough That Yearly, Down This Hill, April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

The Longest Absence Is Less Perilous To Love Than The Terrible Trials Of Incessant Proximity.

God, I Can Push The Grass Apart And Lay My Finger On Thy Heart.

Catch From The Board Of Beauty/ Such Careless Crumbs As Fall.

I Am Glad That I Paid So Little Attention To Good Advice; Had I Abided By It I Might Have Been Saved From Some Of My Most Valuable Mistakes.