Walk With The Dead For Fear Of

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

In Everyone There Sleeps A Sense Of Life Lived According To Love.

Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear.

Parting Is A Training Streamer,lingering Like Leaves In Autumn.

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.