The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother,

Everything Is Sweetened By Risk.

There Is No Ghost So Difficult To Lay As The Ghost Of An Injury.

The Pleased Sea On A White-breasted Shore-- A Shore That Wears On Her Alluring Brows Rare Shells, Far Brought, The Love-gifts Of The Sea, That Blushed A Tell-tale.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.