Seizing The Swift Logic Of A Woman,

Were It Not For Love, Poor Life Would Be A Ship Not Worth Launching.

For When A Woman Is Left Too Much Alone, Sooner Or Later She Begins To Think; And No Man Knows What Then She May Discover.

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.

Where's The Need Of Singing Now?

And Thus We All Are Nighing The Truth We Fear To Know: Death Will End Our Crying For Friends That Come And Go.