But If I Can't Be Sorry, Why,

A Person Who Publishes A Book Willfully Appears Before The Populace With His Pants Down. If It Is A Good Book Nothing Can Hurt Him. If It Is A Bad Book Nothing Can Help Him.

Now The Autumn Shudders In The Rose's Root. Far And Wide The Ladders Lean Among The Fruit. Now The Autumn Clambers Up The Trellised Frame, And The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came. Brighter Than The Blossom On The Rose's Bough Sits The Wizened Orange, Bitter Berry Now; Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.

No One But Night, With Tears On Her Dark Face, Watches Beside Me In This Windy Place.

All My Life, Following Care Along The Dusty Road, Have I Looked Back On Loveliness And Sighed.

After The Feet Of Beauty Fly My Own.