What A Haunting, Inescapable Riddle Life Was.

But Beauty Vanishes; Beauty Passes; However Rare Rare It Be; And When I Crumble, Who Will Remember This Lady Of The West Country?

God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human Brain Works Slowly; First The Blow, Hours Afterwards The Bruise.

And Some Win Peace Who Spend The Skill Of Words To Sweeten Despair Of Finding Consolation Where Life Has But One Dark End.

Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For Flowers.