The Present Is The Funeral Of The

Throw Not My Words Away, As Many Do;they're Gold In Value, Though They're Cheap To You.

I Was Byron And Shakespeare Formerly.

Loud Is The Summer's Busy Song The Smallest Breeze Can Find A Tongue, While Insects Of Each Tiny Size Grow Teasing With Their Melodies, Till Noon Burns With Its Blistering Breath Around, And Day Lies Still As Death.

I Long For Scenes Where Man Has Never Trod;... There To Abide With My Creator, God.

And What Is Life? - An Hour-glass On The Run