I Dwell In Possibility.

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.

As Summer Into Autumn Slips And Yet We Sooner Say "the Summer" Than "the Autumn," Lest We Turn The Sun Away, And Almost Count It An Affront The Presence To Concede Of One However Lovely, Not The One That We Have Loved - So We Evade The Charge Of Years On One Attempting Shy The Circumvention Of The Shaft Of Life's Declivity.

Heart, We Will Forget Him, You And I, Tonight! You Must Forget The Warmth He Gave, I Will Forget The Light.

We Both Believe, And Disbelieve A Hundred Times An Hour, Which Keeps Believing Nimble.

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.