Love Must Have Wings To

Shake The Tree Of Life Itself And Bring Down Fruits Unheard Of.

No Matter What We Are, And What We Sing, Time Finds A Withered Leaf In Every Laurel

Language That Tells Us, Through A More Or Less Emotional Reaction, Something That Can Not Be Said.

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.

Do You Hear The Children Singing?