It's Not Love's Going Hurts My Days

A Person Who Publishes A Book Appears Willfully In Public Eye With His Pants Down.

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.

If Ever I Said In Grief Or Pride, I'd Tired Of Honest Things, I Lied.

Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn What The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

Childhood Is Not From Birth To A Certain Age And At A Certain Age. The Child Is Grown, And Puts Away Childish Things. Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.