Love Is The Last Relay And Ultimate

From Perfect Grief There Need Not Bewisdom Or Even Memory;one Thing Then Learned Remains To Me -the Woodspurge Has A Cup Of Three.

Unto The Man Of Yearning Thought And Aspiration, To Do Nought Is In Itself Almost An Act.

This Sunlight Shames November Where He Grieves In Dead Red Leaves, And Will Not Let Him Shun The Day, Though Bough With Bough Be Overrun. But With A Blessing Every Glade Receives High Salutation.

Places That Are Empty Of You Are Empty Of Life.

Still We Say As We Go,-"strange To Think By The Waywhatever There Is To Know,that Shall We Know One Day.