Life's Not A Paragraph And Death I

You Have Played, (i Think) And Broke The Toys You Were Fondest Of, And Are A Little Tired Now; Tired Of Things That Break, And— Just Tired. So Am I.

Nothing Recedes Like Progress.

Lovers Alone Wear Sunlight.

Art Is A Mystery. A Mystery Is Something Immeasurable.

Miracles Are To Come. With You I Leave A Remembrance Of Miracles: They Are By Somebody Who Can Love And Who Shall Be Continually Reborn, A Human Being.