There Is A Budding Tomorrow In Midnight.

A Poet Is The Most Unpoetical Of Anything In Existence; Because He Has No Identity He Is Continually Informing And Filling Some Other Body.

This Grave Contains All That Was Mortal Of A Young English Poet Who On His Death Bed In The Bitterness Of His Heart At The Malicious Power Of His Enemies Desired These Words To Be Engraved On His Tomb Stone "here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water."

Dancing Music, Music Sad, Both Together, Sane And Mad.

There Is Nothing Stable In The World; Uproar's Your Only Music.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.