I Only Hope That When I Am

Not To Sink Under Being Man And Wife, But Get Some Color And Music Out Of Life?

Now No Joy But Lacks Salt That Is Not Dashed With Pain And Weariness And Fault; I Crave The Stain Of Tears, The Aftermark Of Almost Too Much Love, The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

There Is Little Much Beyond The Grave, But The Strong Are Saying Nothing Until They See.

Both T.s. Eliot And I Like To Play, But I Like To Play Euchre, While He Likes To Play Eucharist.

There's Nothing I'm Afraid Of Like Scared People.