On Ne Sait Jamais! One

She Knew This Man's Smile, His Gentle Ways Of Love, But Not His Godlike Fury In The Storm. She Might Snare Him In A Fragile Net Of Music, Love And Flowers, But, At Each Departure, He Would Break Forth Without, It Seemed To Her, The Least Regret.

On A Day Of Burial There Is No Perspective--for Space Itself Is Annihilated. Your Dead Friend Is Still A Fragmentary Being. The Day You Bury Him Is A Day Of Chores And Crowds, Of Hands False Or True To Be Shaken, Of The Immediate Cares Of Mourning. The Dead Friend Will Not Really Die Until Tomorrow, When Silence Is Round You Again. Then He Will Show Himself Complete, As He Was--to Tear Himself Away, As He Was, From The Substantial You. Only Then Will You Cry Out Because Of Him Who Is Leaving And Whom You Cannot Detain.

The Time For Action Is Now. It's Never Too Late To Do Something.

The Wind In The Grain Is The Caress To The Spouse; It Is The Hand Of Peace Stroking Her Hair.

I Did Not Know How To Reach Him, How To Catch Up With Him... The Land Of Tears Is So Mysterious.