April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And

Upon This Gifted Age, In Its Dark Hour Falls From The Sky A Meteoric Shower Of Facts; They Lie Unquestioned, Uncombined. Wisdom Enough To Leech Us Of Our Ill Is Daily Spun, But There Exists No Loom To Weave It Into Fabric.

But She Was Not Made For Any Man, And She Will Never Be All Mine.

There Are A Hundred Places Where I Fear To Go, --so With His Memory They Brim! And Entering With Relief Some Quiet Place Where Never Fell His Foot Or Shone His Face I Say, 'there Is No Memory Of Him Here!' And So Stand Stricken, So Remembering Him!

Lord I Do Fear / Thou'st Made The World Too Beautiful This Year.

My Heart Is Warm With The Friends I Make, And Better Friends I'll Not Be Knowing, Yet There Isn't A Train I Wouldn't Take, No Matter Where It's Going.