Shake The Tree Of Life Itself And

Seizing The Swift Logic Of A Woman, Curse God And Die.

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

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

Two Kinds Of Gratitude: The Sudden Kind We Feel For What We Take; The Larger Kind We Feel For What We Give.

And We Who Delve In Beauty's Lore Know All That We Have Known Before Of What Inexorable Cause Makes Time So Vicious In His Reaping.