A Bayonet's Contrition Is Nothing To The

How Softly Summer Shuts, Without The Creaking Of A Door.

I Work To Drive The Awe Away, Yet Awe Impels The Work.

March Is The Month Of Expectation, The Things We Do Not Know, The Persons Of Prognostication Are Coming Now. We Try To Sham Becoming Firmness, But Pompous Joy Betrays Us, As His First Betrothal Betrays A Boy.

We Turn Not Older With Years But Newer Every Day.

Life Is The Finest Secret. So Long As That Remains, We Must All Whisper.