I Find I Cannot Exist Without Poetry

Every Fresh Experience Points Out Some Form Of Error Which We Shall Afterwards Carefully Avoid.

Soft Closer Of Our Eyes! Low Murmur Of Tender Lullabies!

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

You Are Always New, The Last Of Your Kisses Was Ever The Sweetest.

Death Is Life's High Meed.