Love Will Not Be Spurred To What

This Thing Of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

I Am A Feather For Each Wind That Blows

The Past Is Prologue.

When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is At Hand.