Sweet Love, Sweet Thorn, When Lightly To

Upon This Gifted Age, In Its Dark Hour Falls From The Sky A Meteoric Shower Of Facts; They Lie Unquestioned, Uncombined. Wisdom Enough To Leech Us Of Our Ill Is Daily Spun, But There Exists No Loom To Weave It Into Fabric.

What The Customer Demands Is Last Year's Model, Cheaper. To Find Out What The Customer Needs You Have To Understand What The Customer Is Doing As Well As He Understands It. Then You Build What He Needs And You Educate Him To The Fact That He Needs It.

A Ghost In Marble Of A Girl You Knew Who Would Have Loved You In A Day Or Two.

Spring To What Purpose, April, Do You Return Again? Beauty Is Not Enough. You Can No Longer Quiet Me With The Redness Of Little Leaves Opening Stickily. I Know What I Know. The Sun Is Hot On My Neck As I Observe The Spikes Of The Crocus. The Smell Of The Earth Is Good. It Is Apparent That There Is No Death. But What Does That Signify? Not Only Under Ground Are The Brains Of Men Eaten By Maggots. Life In Itself Is Nothing, An Empty Cup, A Flight Of Uncarpeted Stairs. It Is Not Enough That Yearly, Down This Hill, April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

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