Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why

She Did Not Look At The Daffodils. They Didn't Mean Anything. She Looked At The Daffodils. She Said, 'thank You For The Daffodils.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.

The Heart The Heart The Heart How It Thrives On Hate.

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.