April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart, And Not The Full Four Seasons Of The Year.

How Strange A Thing Is Death, Bringing To His Knees, Bringing To His Antlers The Buck In The Snow . . . Life, Looking Out Attentive From The Eyes Of The Doe.

The Fabric Of My Faithful Love No Power Shall Dim Or Ravel Whilst I Stay Here - But Oh, My Dear, If I Should Ever Travel!

Death Devours All Lovely Things.

I Am Not A Tentative Person. Whatever I Do, I Give Up My Whole Self To It.