A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

And Her Voice Is A String Of Colored Beads, Or Steps Leading Into The Sea.

Strange How Few, After Alls Said And Done, The Things That Are Of Moment.

Sweet Love, Sweet Thorn, When Lightly To My Heart. I Took Your Thrust, Whereby I Since Am Slain, And I Lie Disheveled In The Grass Apart, A Sodden Thing Bedrenched By Tears And Rain.

Beauty In All Things-no, We Cannot Hope For That; But Some Place Set Apart For It.

I Saw And Heard, And Knew At Last The How And Why Of All Things, Past, And Present, And Forevermore.