Dear, I Can't Write, It's

But Superstition, Like Belief, Must Die.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

A Good Meal Can Somewhat Repair / The Eatings Of Slight Love

The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like Something Almost Being Said; The Recent Buds Relax And Spread, Their Greenness Is A Kind Of Grief. Is It That They Are Born Again And We Grow Old? No, They Die Too. Their Yearly Trick Of Looking New Is Written Down In Rings Of Grain. Yet Still The Unresting Castles Thresh In Fullgrown Thickness Every May. Last Year Is Dead, They Seem To Say, Begin Afresh, Afresh, Afresh.

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.